


Softer Still

by Chubbycubby



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 82,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chubbycubby/pseuds/Chubbycubby
Summary: You are Ondolemar's most trusted servant, and his most secret love.
Relationships: Ondolemar/You
Comments: 64
Kudos: 270





	1. Chapter 1

Every day in Understone Keep is the same, beginning with waking up early on a bed of semi-dry straw. You have no time to linger in your sleepiness, stumbling to your feet and brushing yourself off. You quickly tie your apron over your homespun dress as you dash off to begin your day of serving.

Arriving in the kitchen is a mad scramble of persons clamoring, ordering, grabbing, spilling, and some already dumping plates into the washtub. One servant endlessly slices bread for all the Keep to eat, and you have to fight for a good piece to make your plates. You give the usual greetings to the usual people as you double check the order: one with two pieces of bacon, two pieces of toast with jam, a handful of nuts, and preserved strawberries; the other two plates have exactly half the amount of food.

You arrive at the apartment promptly, but despite the guards standing outside, you must deliver your master’s meal first. Ondolemar is already awake, fully dressed, and answering letters by candlelight.

“You’re late,” might as well be hello for him.

“Yes sir,” you say softly as you place his meal beside him. If you were truly late, he would have bothered to look up, but as it stands he begins picking at the plate of doubled portions.

Before you can dip outside, he says, “Fetch me a second candle. This one is quite low. After you feed my guards, of course.”

“Yes sir,” you reply obediently. The guards steadfastly refuse to speak to you or even share their names, snatching their plates from you in the usual haughty manner. They’re not your charge, so you could care less, dashing back inside to quickly fulfill the second request.

“Tell me: do you find it reasonable that the ration of candles is so low in such a dingy place?” he asks as he dips his quill into his ink well.

Servants only get the stubs of the master’s candles, but you answer, “No sir,” as you place the new candle in its golden holder and gently light the wick for him. As you settle it on his desk, you take a quick glance at the letter he’s writing, unable to tell if it’s for a fellow justiciar, his mother, or a lover. Not because you can’t read Aldmeris, no, because the wording is so flowery you can’t even tell what kind of flattery it’s meant to be.

Not that it’s your business. Your business is pulling down his hood to reveal his thin, almost translucent hair fixed the way you left it the previous night. You undo the tie, setting it silently on the desk before taking his comb from your apron and setting to work styling it for the day. Your master is self-conscious of his thin hair, but most men at one hundred would kill to have even this much. (You can already hear his voice, “I am a mer, not a man, and you _shan’t_ forget it!”)

The whole act is made pointless by the hood he wears all day, but you do what is expected without protest or question. The gilded comb glides through the thin strands, pulling them back into a small ponytail fastened with the same golden tie. He ignores you all the while, a sign you’ve done an adequate job.

After you lift his hood once more, you step to the side to wait patiently for master to finish eating. You know he never eats the bacon, and always leaves a piece of bread, but you need that dismissive wave of the hand before you can take it away. When he shoos you off wordlessly, you whisk the flatware away and stride out the door. The guards carelessly toss their empty plates at you, but you catch them all the same with the solace that you get to eat master’s leftover breakfast as soon as you’re out of eyesight.

A quick trip the kitchen to drop off the plates is followed by a dash to the water pump. Even if master’s room has running water, the house steward insists all water for scrubbing be taken from this leaking, old pump. Grabbing two buckets from the usual stack on the way in, you catch up with those waiting to draw their water, some already soaking and filthy from laundry or hard scrubbing.These moments of amity are sweet relief, but no one has time to linger. Soon you’re hauling two heavy buckets of waterup the stairs to your master’s empty apartment.

Understone Keep is dark, damp, and prone to mold, and elves are prim, proper, and always clean, hence having to scrub every stone surface in his apartment every day. Today was a double burden day, meaning you would have to do his laundry as well. The lye burns your hands, but you remind yourself that you’re lucky not to do this day-in, day-out, every hour of every day until your back is a single stiff joint.

Once the place is gleaming and drying, you re-tie your apron on and rush back to the opposite side of the keep to return the buckets to their resting place. Despite your path avoiding the places where nobles and dignitaries loiter, it seems Master Ondolemar always finds you. Upon assessing your appearance as slovenly, sloppy, sopping or perhaps some meri adjective that really smarted, he would always wave his hands and a sudden heat overcomes you, leaving your dress totally dry. You always curtsy, genuinely grateful not to shiver for hours in a wet shift, but he never does anything but sneer.

Lunchtime is brutal on the kitchen staff, half of whom are already occupied preparing dinner. You take over the role of the endless bread slicer as bawdy jokes, plates, scraps, and gossip flow through the kitchen. Your master only eats twice a day, but the human servants beg and scramble for the heels for bread you leave behind, and remember how lucky you are to be so well-fed.

As the rush dies down, you brush off your hands and hurry out the door to find your master in the jarl’s chamber. Ondolemar is easy to find,standing head and shoulders above everyone but his guard. Before you even manage a greeting, he thrusts a shopping list in your face. You carefully look it over, as he tends to forget at least one thing purposefully to see if you’re paying attention.

You ask softly, “Sir, you are running low on dried lavender-”

“My! Look at you, almost worth your wages. Yes, add that to the list too.”

You quickly dive into your apron for a small pencil and add it to the list right there. “And should I check with the trader for a new book for your library, sir?”

“A book?” he scoffs, “What ever makes you think I would want to read something as coarse at Nordic ‘literature’?”

“To compare it to the greatness of the Altmer?” you offer weakly.

The guards shoot you an acidic look while Ondolemar gives and forced and mocking laugh. “If you find a particularly compelling tome, feel free. But if I have already read it, or I do not like it, it will come out of your pay.”

“Never mind, sir.”

“That’s what I like about you. You know when to give up.”

Ondolemar may take every chance to insult you, but you’re so lucky to leave the keep, breathe fresh air, see the sky, hear relative silence as the noise of the tone is released into the open instead of amplified in a stone coffin. Your feet practically fly over the stones as you flit from shop to shop, eager to hear the latest gossip and fashions. No one likes your master, but few take it out on you, and some people even ask how you are!

Stepping back into the dim keep puts a certain weight on your shoulders. As per protocol,you bring your purchases to Ondolemar for inspection, to which he points out every imperfection and berates you for them. The candles are not perfectly straight (they never are). Yes, the lavender lost some petals on the way (it’s dried). But you just nod over and over saying “Yes sir. I understand sir.”

After his scolding ends, you hand him the list of books, saying, “I thought you perhaps haven’t read-”

“I’ve read all of those, twice, except the last one, which barely qualifies as writing.”

“Yes sir,” you say, curtsying. He waves his hand, approving you plea for dismissal.

But as you walk away he calls out: “Miss?”

“Yes sir?”

“Your penmanship is terrible.”

Reminding yourself that you’re lucky to be literate at all, you deliver the supplies to his room before going to the coop on the roof to collect the post. Pigeons are domestic mail from within Skyrim, and typically the man who tends to the birds will collect them as they come. The hawks, however, are from Summerset, and are well-trained to only let a permitted recipient gather the mail. The first time you tried to complete this task you were nearly mauled, by by now the birds tentatively allow you to take the scrolls and small packages from their feet.

Now that that is dealt with, you’re back to your master’s room, opening the bundles as prescribed. Each contains payments for every Talos worshiper executed, or expenses reimbursed. Rumor has it that master makes you handle the money alone because it is will always be the perfect excuse to dismiss you should he ever need to. That thought always motivates you to go over everything in his room once more and make sure it is in order, although he is sure to point out what is wrong.

Sorting through the mail is more difficult than mere counting, as you must rank each sender and arrange the mail as such. Pigeon mail is quite easy to get through. The indignant letters from families of executed worshipers, unfortunately, must be burned. Then comes the tip-offs, usually with no name on the front, followed by anyone seeming important. Hawk mail is… a mess. Every elf has about seventy-two potential titles, and understanding the complex social web is so impossible that even Ondolemar does not expect that you to get it right.

These tasks finally complete, you lock his apartment door behind you and run off to eat dinner with the other servants. The usual ale and news circulates the tables: The jarl is sleeping with so-and-so, his wife is sleeping with so-and-so’s husband, the blacksmith is skimming gold, and so on until the stock of true rumors run dry and the fables begin. The laughter flows as freely as the stories, but the joy is short-lived, as everyone must return to their duties before the jarl’s feast is over.

As you climb the stairs once more, you remind yourself that this is the last time you will go up them today, and mark yourself lucky. After unlocking the apartment again, you leave the door open and enter the bathroom, doubly lucky that the Dwemer left behind running water and taps. As the tub fills your stir it with your hand and reminds yourself that it’snot as strict as Riften, not as dower as Falkreath, not as brutal as Solitude, not as cold as Winterhold, yet… You shake your head. It could be far worse, especially if you’re caught slacking. You prepare master’s sleeping gown (finer than your own dress) and put away what laundry is already dry. To the bath water you add the usual salts, the usual herbs, and to you the usual prick of anxiety as Ondolemar enters the apartment.

His guards remain outside as Ondolemar rifles through his mail, rearranging a few without comment as you prepare your usual seat by the bookshelf. Some of the letters remain on the desk, but he hands you a stack as he walks into the bathroom. The entirely opaque glass and gold door shuts, but the apartment door remains open, to let any passerby or nosy guard witness the scene for themselves and know there will never, ever be any impropriety in his apartment.

“You may begin,” he says dryly.

Sitting outside, you read the letters out loud. Most written by Nords are clearly someone deep in a petty feud who wants their opponent taken out any way possible. Most of those are burned for being baseless, but a few have enough proof to merit some kind of investigation, and are set aside for him.

The letters in Common are quickly exhausted, and soon you’re stammering through Aldmeris, being chastised at every step.

“A gennye-i av tata av-”

“By the eight, stop! Spell out the verb, slowly.”

“G-E-N-N-Y-E dash I.”

“Burn it.”

“Excuse me sir?”

“Did I falter? Burn the letter _and_ its envelope immediately!”

“Yes sir,” you answer, not daring to ask what that extra syllable meant. “Gennye” is a very polite way to say give, and extra suffixes usually denote a further level of formality, so perhaps it’s somehow insulting...? But then why would he not send a retort?

You torch the envelope first to give you time to study the letter. There are many words you don’t know, but it seems to be a… marriage proposal!? Yes, you’re certain it’s a marriage proposal written by the prospective bride’s father. You suppose destroying all evidence it ever existed is an unequivocal “no”.

“That was the last letter you gave to me. Would you like me to take any from the desk? It seems you have a lot of mail from Summerset.”

He groans wearily. “Considering my birthday comes by month end, undoubtedly. Leave them, miss.”

“Yes sir. Would you like me to read you anything else in the meantime?”

“Yes, please resume your study of Coristir’s Etiquette Guides. I believe you were on Volume IV.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, hiding your disappointment. You remind yourself that you’re lucky to never have a pile of mending, and reading a wretched volume of the most arrogant etiquette guide is better than working the furnace. Still, it’s so _pretentious._ Half the time, you want to throw the book down and yell, “Have you considered that Altmer are not the center of the universe?” but, you don’t. You won’t. You’re very, very lucky.

So many maids would have been coaxed (or forced) into the bathing chamber to “help their lord be clean” or whatever nonsense excuse. You glance out the open bedroom door, you see Merilde hobbling by, one hand on her back, fully pregnant by a man who will, at best, pay to keep it a secret. At worst… you shudder for her. As snide as your master is, there are far worse men to serve, far worse roles to play. Being looked down on as pile of dirt is far luckier than being looked upon as a pillar of beauty.

After a half hour, Ondolemar emerges wearing his fine silk dressing gown. His thin hair is already half dry as he settles into his desk chair to read something about the arcane, as he always does before bed. You clean up his dirty laundry and sweep up the ashes as your daily routine prescribes. The next step is the last task of the day, combing his hair and setting it for sleeping. You’re careful not to be seen rushing, despite your aching feet and weary body.

“Aren’t you going to ask it?” he remarks as you begin to put the tie around his hair. “Your daily allotted stupid question?”

You oblige him, kindly inquiring, “Are you excited for your one hundred and third birthday, master?”

“Absolutely not. The elders always told me that anything after one hundred is simply a slow slide to death and they are absolutely correct. Vultures that have not cared or written in months shall be at my side, begging for their petty trinkets, baubles, blessings, and pardons. It disgusts me.”

Of course, he’s referring to the altmeri tradition of receiving gifts for birthdays before the centennial, and giving gifts for birthdays thereafter. You reply sympathetically, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Such is wretched mortality. Are you finished? Be off then.”

“Good night, master,” you say with a curtsy.

“Good night, maid,” he murmurs, sparing you a quick glance.

Once downstairs in the servant’s quarters, you collapse into the straw, aching all over. A quick glance at those that have been chopping wood or heating coals all day leaves you grateful once more, but you can’t help but think of a softer bed, a softer master, a softer life…


	2. Of Two Minds

Every day at Understone Keep begins the same dreary way: rising in the dark hours of morning when he can dress in silence. The guards Sirilonwe and Arquen are not due for half an hour, although they could have fell into Oblivion for all he cared as neither make a good conversation partner. Their general response is to stare blankly at him as if it’s _strange_ that he wishes to keep society with the only other Altmer in all of The Reach.

When they do arrive at his door, they look like fools, thinking no one has noticed their affair. Indeed, they’re usually more obsessed with sending each other “secret” signals that he refuses to let them in his room, lest their flirtations make him sick. Besides, there is no window in this damp Dwemer apartment, so their most defensive placement is outside, away from him, allowing him to work on his secret project in peace.

For weeks now he’s been trying to capture the essence of his affections in poetry. He’s been struggling terribly with this verse for the last few days”

_If I could take you in my hands  
_ _To r_ _emold you in the day  
I_

The action begs to be completed, but what action was that?No matter what language, what word, it wasn’t… it didn’t… Frustrated,Ondolemar begins marking the minutes by the shuffle of servants scurrying through the hall: Oldeir’s heavy foot falls, and Fevkyn’s quick feet, followed by his child just behind. When he hears Thuron lumber through, Ondolemar marks you as late, and so the worry begins.

Many logical explanation exist; Thuron is early, or you had trouble with the plates, or that they replaced you. You could be hurt, or just violently ill.Some debacle could have occurred while he slept and you’ve been thrown into the mines.Perhaps the Dark Brotherhood to collect you, or a rift in time and space erased you from everyone’s memory but his own.

“Good tam, Master Ondolemar,” you greet him as you walk in breakfast.

“You’re late,” he chides and he slips the poem in a drawer.

“Yes sir,” you say politely as you place his meal beside him. Your quick dip outside always grants a second chance to start a conversation.

When you re-enter, he comments: “That court mage Calcelmois barely acquainted with the arcane. He’s really more of a bookseller than anything.”

In the mirror on his desk, he can see you almost ask a question, but the one-per-day rule shuts your mouth. He wonders… Were you going to comment on the bookseller remark? You have been on a recent quest to find him new reading material, and while _c_ _learly_ no Nordic magical text is even worth reading, you were… thinking of him. Maybe. Probably not, when he stops to think about it. Curse the “one stupid question per day” rule, even if answering your questions would cause his guards to gossip. It would be delightful just to sit with you, answer all your curiosities… The constant threat of gossip reaching Summerset keeps him from giving in at all, even as you gently pull back his hair. If anyone discovers his crush, including you, Ondolemar will be ruined.

He’s so steeped in his predicament, he realizes he has no idea if you ever replied to his statement or not. Not a clue, but what is he going to do, ask you to repeat yourself? And reveal he hadn’t been paying attention in the first place? Absolutely not! He brushes you off with disaffection and focuses on his first chore for the day, replying to mail.

The letters (that he knows you read over his shoulder) are far more interesting anyways. Every Aldmeri official for two hundred miles around will be in attendance, as he is on of the oldest mer in Skyrim, and thus he should host the grandest social salon of the year. Actually… Since Soronilmo married and moved back to the Isle, he just might be the oldest altmer in the province now.The thought panics him, and he leaves you half of his bread in addition to the usual portion that he leaves you, a piece of bread and two pieces of bacon.

For whatever reason, the jarl only finances _two_ meals a day for the servant’s. Having read _On Human Digestion, Metablosim, & Etc._ by Lillandlian, Ondolemar did try to explain the basics of nutrition to the house steward, but he was rebuked and forced to let you feed on his scraps if you were to have any breakfast at all. Of course, he wishes you would sit down next to him when you finish with his hair and take from his plate. That would be really nice, but as it stands you will only eat once he’s waved you away.

The daily accusations in the jarl’s throne room give him a head ache. For the dozenth time that day, Ondolemar says, “I understand that in your backwater runoff of a village, you may not have the concept of proof, but the Aldmeri Dominion does. Proof is something physical, in my hand, that gives me a reason to imprison your brother. I cannot and will not waste Dominion resources imprisoning everyone with an enemy, you see.”

The sister’s brow knits in anger, her weak constitution barely able to contain the rage as she digs around in her apron. The Talos amulet she produces is absolutely hers, but once Ondolemar receives the deed is done. She may think that she’s won, but this is really two-orcs-one-arrow: Certainly she will be rejected from the church the moment anyone finds out about this and, the brother is probably a heretic anyways!

Since the jarl adjourns for lunch, there is no sense in keeping up the accusation collection while Nordic authority is not being agitated and subverted. After all, that’s the _real_ mission, to entice the civil war. That’s why why most mer his age consider a Skyrim assignment an exercise in social exile. After all, what does one send into the storm but the ships that won’t be missed?

Just before lunch, he makes sure to find you and dry you as usual, as the jarl also does not budget for his servants to own second sets of clothing. The warm wind spelldelights you each time, and your curtsy and smile are so heart warming. He must think of more ways to showcase his magical ability in simple ways you understand; reading that arcane tome every night is going completely unnoticed!

Somehow, Ondolemar always spends half of the lunch hour on these hair-brained and love struck schemes. If only he could locate a minor dremora bound in the shape of something cute like a rabbit or a kitten. Then he could summon the thing from Oblivious and amuse you with it, all while subtly showing his multi-faceted conjuration and scrying skills. So far, he’s only found various amours and swords, and in fact he carries on so long, he doesn’t have time to burn the love poems before Calcelmo returns to his post.

Arriving back in the throne room, a somewhat familiar Nord is already waiting for him.Judging by the slouch of his shoulders, this the brother from his pre-lunch case. The man clutches his own Talos pendant, probably to implicate his sister, but Ondolemar has no time to listen to the same crap. He is clearing his afternoon to spend it with you, and that starts with having his guards drag this man to the dungeons before you arrive to ask for the shopping list.

He gets the impression you would rather be alone on these errands, probably because you haven’t figured out the guards aren’t coming. He glances back and you still look glum, probably because your role as a servant means you must trail behind him by a few steps. Actually, maybe it was less glum and more out-of-breath, as he forgets how long his legs are compared to yours. He slows his walk, and you glance at him, your eyes fixed on each other for one wonderful moment before he sees his guards catching up behind you.

With no regard for the slick stone, they barrel passed you to take their usual place one step behind their charge. He eyes them and they him: as their booking took awfully long, which meant Ondolemar was unaccompanied with his maid awfully long. No accusations rise, however, as each is too afraid of their own indiscretion being revealed.

“You must wait out here while I settle this order,” Ondolemar comments. Noting your shivering in the Morning Star air, he renews a cloak of warmth spell to which you curtsy and thank him, obviously impressed with his skills.

Inside, the proprietorgives him the usual nonsense about bandits and whatnot, while producing virtuallyeverything he paid for in advance. Most were gifts for the ~~parasites~~ friends visiting at month’s end, and thus must be inspected for quality. Lastly he comes to the fresh, sturdy, new apron for his beloved maidservant, since you enjoy stuffing as much junk on your person as possibly. You would most certainly love it, and maybe you will be so overwhelmed with joy you might…

He will finish that sentence in his journal tonight (and promptly strike it out of embarrassment). For now, he folds the apron into a small bundle and pockets it, leaving the other items in the box. Before he can summon you to carry the rest, the shopkeeper asks, “Could you send the girl in? I think I have something she might like.”

Curiosity piqued, Ondolemar replies, “I will send her in to retrieve the package.”

You’re in and out so quickly, he had been certain that you had bought nothing until he spotted a small book in the bottom pocket of your apron. He could not discern much more about it, as you’ve folded a head scarf over it to hide it. You may not be well-educated, but you aren’t stupid enough to acquire Talos or daedric holy books in his presence, which would only leave the hidden tome to something risque…Maybe a certain tale about a certain lusty Argonian _maid_? Oh! The _implication!!!_

Wait! No! He cannot afford to let his mind wander like that in public. As soon as you have the last package of goods, Ondolemar sends you back to his room to resume you’re daily tasks. Now alone with his guards, he glances over his shoulder to make some comment, but he can already tell they’ll just ignore him so he doesn't bother.

Nor does he wish to speak with anyone present at the jarl's dinner table. The entire affair is as stimulating as a mudcrab, but Ondolemar is grateful for any distraction from his heated imagination. Here, he is reminded how disgusting humans are, and how he detests their bawdy jokes, salacious gossip, and subpar wine. Their plots are weak and easily undone before they can even begin, but the planning stages are amusing

When the justiciar cannot take anymore greasy venison, he retires to his room, where a warm bath and a beautiful woman wait for him. You look particularly stunning tonight already settled into your chair by the bathroom door. The candle light illuminates you so softly he might melt into a puddle if he doesn’t set himself to work immediately.

“Good lov, master,” you say as he steps inside.

“What book are you enjoying?” he asks in Aldmeri, which sounds the most disaffected.

“I-”

“Ah-Ah, you should practice the high language,” he says as he approaches his desk.

“I am reading a book,” you say, pausing as you struggle for the correct “about”. Meanwhile Ondolemar lifts an envelope gilded with real gold from the stack. Judging by the sender’s title, the care put in the penmanship, and the enchantment sealing the envelope, Ondolemar supposes this is a formal askance of marriage. Aenydi is a fine woman, a fellow justiciar that serves on the main island; he had no legitimate reason to deny her request. Besides, once he agrees, he’ll finally return to Summerset, start a family… The food, the culture, his family, his _status_ would be finally restored.

Having received no reply from him, you stutter, “I- I’m sorry. I don’t know the word ‘restoration’ in the high language.”

“Restoration magic,” he says, tossing the letter back on the desk without opening it or alerting the sender he had acknowledged it. As Ondolemar gathers the less mail from the stack, he remarks: “The lowest field of magic, but I would argue, the most useful.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me use your library sir,” you say, slipping the book back in its place as he approaches you.

“Here,” he says, as he hands you the bundle.

“Thank you sir,” you say, but he doesn’t let go.

“I’m curious. Miss, if you could select any profession, which would you prefer?”

“Well, I think I’d really like being a school teacher, actually.”

He immediately releases the letters and hurries into the bathroom. Of course his soft, perfect, wonderful maid would select the noblest and most caring of professions. You alsochose to study the gentlest school of magic. Your shining eyes were gems that captured his soul; your smile a trap that ensnared his heart with the poison of romance.

As he undresses, his mind will certainly be ripped in two, knowing that he will forever regret leaving you behind just as much as he would regret eloping with you and betraying his people. Over and over he tells himself this isn’t really _love_ it’s just a simple equation:

Proximity + Attention = Infatuation.

Plain and simple. The way that you seem to blossom before his eyes, the beauty of your smile-

“Sir? Would you like me to begin reading?”

“Of course,” he answers.

“Yes sir,” you say before your sonorous voice begins to lull him into a love sick haze.

No! This is it! He can’t keep living like this! Every day is a whirlwind of emotion as he bumbles from one flustered blunder to the next. Marrying Aenydi will produce none of this limitless energy, finally returning his sense to him. He will be accepted back into society, never to be exiled again. He will certainly regret leaving his first and dearest love, but that was better than throwing away his birthright as an altmer, right?

Right?

He’s exhausted by all this back-and-forth, having gone through the same thoughts yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, so forth on back to that first day he acknowledged the flutter in his heart. Once dried and dressed again, Ondolemar marches straight to the desk and opens the proposal while you sweep burnt parchment ashes. He reads the letter a dozen times, half-hoping to find a grammatical error that would nullify the whole affair.

Even as you fix his hair, he cannot find a single flaw. It’s a legitimately arranged marriage, and he will have to accept it. Hair barely set, Ondolemar snaps: “Ask your stupid question and be off.” as he tosses the note to the side.

You pause longer than usual before saying, “Is it possible that an altmer could be so well-bred that no spouse of equal standing could be found?”

“You possess a fundamental misunderstanding about marriage. Spouses are never equals. One is the teacher; the other is the taught. In cases of gross inequity, the more well-bred party is compensated by the family of lower station."

“I see.”

“You are dismissed.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, miss.”

Once your footsteps fade, he takes his morning poem from his pocket:

_If I could take you in my hands  
To remold you in the day  
I_

He taps the quill twice before continuing.

_If I could take you in my hands  
To remold you in the day  
I wouldn’t_

_I couldn’t  
_ _Like the dawn and the night  
_ _We are perfect_

_Apart_

The style is _awful,_ the meter nonexistent, and the rhyming weak, and the oblique Nocturnal-Azura reference is actually illegal, but... how appropriate for this secret passion. Rough, honest, forbidden, doomed.

That settles it. It ends tomorrow. He’ll slip this scrap of paper to you, and surely the verse will make everything perfectly clear. He won't need an explicit reason to dismiss you then. You will understand, let it go, move on. Without the proximity, his crush will fade and he will have the peace of mind to write a proper reply to this proposal.

After all, he knows you don’t return this affection. Not at all. Not even a little. You’re just a maid doing your best to keep your master happy. Ondolemar nurses this ridiculous obsession no longer! He cannot, will not go through all this nonsense for one more day!

When he moves to bed, the guards shut the door to signal their shifts have ended. Finally alone, he takes his journal from its secret hiding place and begins:

_Dear Diary:_

_Tomorrow I will end things with my maid servant and this time I will not reconsider for anything!! Even if I want her to ~~kiss me.~~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! 
> 
> Poor Ondolemar is such a sweetheart but also kind of a jerk :[


	3. A Change of Plans

When you finish your errands, Master Ondolemar needs to speak with you urgently. He’s in a foul mood today, so you are in no rush, waiting by Ghorza’s forge as she finishes sharpening the order of daggers you were sent to pick up. You’ll gather them when they’re ready, but for now you can read your newly purchased book: Civility and Etiquette Volume LXIX: Hair Styling.

“Arranging one’s spouse’s hair can intimidate the newly-wed, however, hairstyles have not evolved since ancient times, when our ancestors first delineated the social strati and their associated appearances. Therefore, each technique has been refined over millennia to peak simplicity and elegance, allowing for graceful replication each day. This guide will illuminate the eighty basic of styles, while volume LXX of the series delves into more situational and exceptional settings.”

You find it strange that the prim and proper Coristir would open this book as a wedding night instruction, but as a rule, you don’t try figure out High Elves. You thumb to the back, searching for “Notes Concerning Servants”, but surprisingly there’s no such section as in the others you have read. You jump back to the table of contents and confirm no pages are missing. Skimming down the list, you locate “Upper-Middle-Class, Unmarried, Centennial, Man.” and flip to the page. 

The instructions were for the usual ponytail you fixed and in the notes the author explains: “This simplified hairstyle is elegant and understated, so as not to appear desperate for a spouse. Wisps should be avoided at all costs, as they allude to the Unmarried Bicentennial who is released of all fastidious observation due to his advanced age and fruitless life.”

Marriage seems to be an enormous deal to the Altmer, so much so that congratulating someone with the wrong word is grounds for yelling at seven in the morning. The askance has only just arrived, and he’s already losing his mind in addition to the upcoming Justiciar visits.

You hear a foreign language in the distance and peer down into the belly of the city to find its source. You hear the words a little more clearly and recognize the sounds of Aldmeris before spotting two justiciars walking through the streets, no doubt making their way to the keep. You hurriedly stuff your book into your apron and run out so quickly the blacksmith has no time to call after.

You startle Ondolemar when you race into his room, declaring breathlessly, “Emissaries are here.”

“The invitation say the twenty-fourth; who would dare come so early?” he snaps.

“I didn’t see their faces well, but I saw there were two of them.”

“By the eight, where are the daggers I asked you to pick up?”

“The blacksmith wasn’t done with them when I saw them, and I wanted to give you warning. By the time I run back they will be done.”

“I should have never trusted an orc with such an important task,” he hisses as he follows you out the door. He’s knows now he will be unable to dismiss you. He can’t afford to train a replacement now, not when there would be people with intricate designs on him and deep pockets to bribe the servant.

“Find my in the apartments after you have finished!” he says as he turn down a hall, away from your hustle. Luckily Ondolemar catches the house carl on his duties and informing him of the extremely rude guests so that he didn’t need to risk speaking ill of them when they finally arrive. Rejoining with his guards, he strides out to the entrance and meets the pair of idiots.

“Ondolemar, I hope our early arrival is not too much trouble,” says Emissary Liithric of Eastern High Rock.

“I am only unsettled that your furnishings are not yet up to satisfaction,” Ondolemar replies calmly, if only because he couldn’t say, “You dumb fucks are two weeks early. What do you think?!”

“Wonderful. We are weary from the journey; do you have any place suitable for us to freshen up?” Eidoril asks as the servants laden with bags catch up to the pair.

“This way guv-mer,” he says with a turn on his heel. 

“I have always wanted to explore a Dwemer ruin,” Eidoril says, marveling at the structure around him.

“Then you’ll want to speak with Calcelmo, the court mage. I prefer to stay on the side of civilization without enormous frost spiders.”

“As if this is civilization,” he mutters,

“So!” Liithric interjects, “I am so grateful you could accomadate our intrusion. We thought it would take much longer to cross the mountains.”

“A day sooner, and you may have regretted it,” Ondolemar replies. “The linens just arrived this morning,” Ondolemar says are he rounds the corner and prays someone had the sense to make the beds. 

His prayers must have been swiftly answered. When he walks into the first room, a young woman has just finished fluffing the pillows. She perks up and says, “Oh my! Sirs, uh- Hello! My name is Vivian, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry for the state of the room. I was told you wouldn’t be in for two weeks!”

“No matter, miss,” Liithric says as he motions to the servants to put down the luggage, “It will be better to personally instruct you in the finishings anyways.”

“As no one has bothered to instruct you with anything at all,” Eidoril mutters.

Before Liithric has a chance to rebuke him, a servant drops a heavy case and he yells sharply, “Do be careful!”

As they sort out that commotion, Ondolemar see a figure in the doorway. He approaches as you curtsy and say between pants, “The gifts are in the cabinet sir.”

“Good,” he answers firmly. “I want you to spend the rest of your evening helping Mrs. Vivian prepare my guests’ furnishings.”

“Yes sir.”

“Ondolemar, if I could have a word” Eidoril says, stepping between you and your master to cut the conversation. “Are we really being expected to room with each other?”

“Of course not. You may stay with any Altmer who permits your company.”

“You could not create more space?”

“You are a few millennia late to lodge that complaint.”

“Judging by the schematics I have studied of Nchuand-Zel, and the maps you have provided us, the Nords only utilize a fraction of the city,” Eidoril says, apparently unaware you could understand him.

“The rest is infested with frost spiders, and according to Calcelmo, they are the last line of defense against an imminent Falmer invasion.”

“Ha! A party of a few well-bred elves could take care of that! Have you ever explored the ruins?”

“I am still waiting for a party of well-bred elves,” your master quips before turning back to you, and finishing his instructions in Tamrielic, “I will have your meals sent here. Please instruct Mrs. Vivian on the proper ways to prepare an altmer’s room.”

“Yes sir.”

Turning back to the guests, he says, “Guv-mer, we should make your way to the throne room and make introductions with Jarl Igmund and his lovely family.”

As they file out, Liithric is the last, following obediently until you catch his eye and he stops in his tracks. “You must be Ondolemar’s personal servant.”

“Yes sir,” you say nervously as your master taps his foot.

“That’s why I saw you running from the blacksmith… and then you returned there, took your supplies, dropped them off, and ran back here.”

“Yes sir.”

“You have quite some stamina then… quite useful for a personal servant.”

“Liithric, if you hope to have your room ready by midnight, you must leave the help to their duties,” Ondolemar says, and then more quietly adds, “And mind the Year One Codes, yes?”

“Of course,” he replies, one hand on his chest in a feigned move of apology, “Let us be off.”

The tension peaks for a moment, before the elves walks away. You hurry into the room to be at Vivian’s side, and it’s only minutes after their footfalls fade that she has the courage to speak, “So it begins.”

“By the Gods, Morning Star is going to be a long month,” you mutter as you open the first trunk, completely filled with books.

“I felt bad for you running around tending to one elf! I don’t know how I will possibly tolerate two.”

“By the time everyone arrives, there will be a team of us. Together, we can withstand anything,” you say as you begin shelving the tomes alphabetically.

“I hope they don’t expect me to learn all that language.”

“No, they would probably prefer if you couldn’t eavesdrop.”

Vivian perks up. “Wait, is it possible for you to teach me a few words?”

“Only if you promise to pretend you don’t know anything.”

“You can count on it,” she says with a wily smile.

By the time you two have everything washed, aired out, and in its place, she has a good grasp on numbers and colors, at least. You’ve barely cracked the surface on the different kind of verbs when Vivian interrupts.

“What’s the word for food?” she says. “Didn’t that good-for-nothing master of yours promise us dinner?”

“Ladies, ladies!” Fevkyn says as he rounds the corner into the room, “I came as quickly as I could, but I’m just not used to the idea.”

“Hello Fevkyn,” you say.

He dramatically offers you your plate, using a heavy accent to say, “Your dinner, madame.”

When he turns to Vivian, she flexes her new vocabulary, greeting him: “Good tev, Fevkyn.”

“Ah, missus, that might be how these guv-mer speak, but the Dunmer have a far more interesting tongue,” he says as she takes her plate. He’s quick to slip behind you and murmur, “Ghar as ouafe -edur maliat en mid,” so sweetly the words travel like a shiver down your spine.

“Did you just tell me the island is salty and mild?” you ask.

“You’re so close I could introduce you to my mother!”

“Fevkyn, you are such a flirt,” you say dismissively.

“Perhaps you’re more inclined to the-” and he brings himself up tall and square shouldered, “higher mannerisms of mer.” He clears his throat, “Av-a blav-a chic-a choc-a feep-a foop-a!”

Vivian giggles, but you can’t manage a smile, too paranoid the kitchen boy will be caught.

“Ah, don’t worry my sweet,” Fevkyn says, “I’ll teach you a little trick, should you ever be heard saying something amiss.”

“Is the trick that you say they shouldn’t care what such a lowly person thinks about them in the first place?”

“Damn! How am I supposed to get my kiss now?”

“You could ask,” you answer with a sure smile.

“Ah but curse this merish blood: I must prove myself worthy of your heaven, and I will do so in the oldest way possible: by bragging about my lineage.”

Fevkyn always has a story about how he got to Markarth, and they always start with, “I haven’t been completely honest in the past.” You smile to encourage the latest tale, “You see, the truth is, I am from one of the great houses.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, but alas, I was born with this nick in my ear, and some draconian family tradition said that I could not stay. My own father sold me to the servant market! My own father! Cruelly abandoning me!” he says, dramatically dropping to his knees in a faux anguish.

“There, there,” Vivian says, patting him on the shoulder while you two share an incredulous look.

Pulling himself together, he continues: “But my mother, oh sweet, dear mother, she gave me this trinket to remember her by. The standard weapon of all great Dunmeri houses, a small piece of Shoegrath himself! Passed down over the centuries and to me!”

He pull the trinket from his pocket, an amulet on a coarse cord. As the swing of the pendant slows, you examine it carefully: thick, brassy wire formed into a square with a similar triangle inside. Set inside the triangle is a piece of murky glass that scatters the light strangely, just like a soul gem.

“Put that away!” you gasp. “You are in a Thalmor justiciar’s room!”

“Take it!” he insists, putting it in your hand. “Take it straight to the head justiciar and tell him ‘My dunmer colleague Fevkyn gave me this amulet and I have my suspicions about it’ and see what he says.”

“He will send me to the mines!” you hiss as you try to give it back.

“You? Mmm… I find that unlikely. However, if you meet me in the kitchen tonight you may return it and this.” Fevkyn steals a quick peck on the cheek, not immediately pulling away so he can bask in your bashfulness. “You will oblige me, sweet maid, won’t you?”

“I’ll be there,” you answer softly.

“Be sure to show it to him. He’ll be thrilled.”

“Absolutely not. Master is already in a terrible mood. He has just received a formal askance of marriage.”

“Ah, I heard this morning, when he was screaming at you for congratulating him before the arrangements were made.”

“It’s bad luck,” you murmur facetiously.

“Fevkyn!” someone yells down the hall.

“Oh! That’s me! Gotta dash! Tell the mister I said hello, Viv, and beautiful, don’t you worry about a thing,” he says with a wink.

“Fevkyn!”

“Coming!” he sings out as you hand over your plates. He steals one more kiss before he rushes out the door.

“My! He is quite the flirt,” Vivian says as his footsteps fade.

“Well, he’s practiced on every lady in the hold,” you reply facetiously. 

“But he’s always had an eye for you,” she adds. “He’s saved your hide quite a few times.”

“I’m not entirely sure he didn’t create some of those crises himself.”

“Oh now! Don’t be so prejudiced just because he’s a dark elf. Fev can be a scamp, but his heart is in the right place. He’s always been very fond of you.”

“Perhaps,” you answer, eager to get back to work.

“Are you going to meet him tonight?”

“Maybe,” you say with a certain smile. “I still have to finish helping you and then catch up with my master’s tasks.”

“Oh! I’m fine here now. I only need to put these last few things in drawers and put the trunks in the closet. You go ahead- As long as you promise to tell me all about to tomorrow, that is.”

“Of course,” you answer with a sly smile.

You’re as skeptical as you are giddy. On one hand, Fevkyn is a compulsive liar, a cheat, and somewhat lazy about his chores, but on the other he’s so exciting… No matter how lean the rations or wet the straw, he always has a spark of light inside of him, and he can always spare a moment for you. There has been this unspoken sort of thing between you two, but… He’s had a thing with a lot of ladies.

Even though you ran yourself ragged to draw master’s bath at the usual time, he is running late by an hour. Normally you would relish the extra moments to read, but you fear being late for this meeting. You finish both your book about hair-styling and the one about restoration magic before you even hear the usual footsteps of the trio returning.

“I told you to assist Miss Vivian in preparing the rooms,” he says, striding immediately into the bathroom.

“We finished preparing the room just after dinner, and then I resumed my chores.”

“You did not help her with the other rooms?”

“I was told each room would have its own servant to prepare it,” you say softly.

“These fools have come early because the others plan to as well. You must use every free moment you have to prepare my guests’ amenities, after tomorrow.”

“What will I do tomorrow, sir?”

“My guests insist on exploring the ruins of this Dwemer city. You and Vivian will assist us in retrieving research materials.”

Calcelmo always warns young children that the ruins were full of traps, monsters, and feral Falmer, but you have no choice in the matter. “Yes sir.”

“Did you collect the mail?”

“Yes sir.”

“Anything worthwhile from Summerset?”

“No sir.”

Ondolemar shudders as he slips into the cooled bath water, supposing that’s what he gets for leaving you waiting so long. He warms it with his magic, though he has no time to soak listen to you speak.

“Have you already burned the death threats?”

“Yes sir, and I have swept up the ash,” you say. 

“Very well,” he states, with a long pause before he goes on. “You know, it’s a shame: I had established such a perfect pattern for our lives, and now it is ruined.”

“That’s too bad, sir.”

“Miss?”

“Yes sir?”

“Do not let our new friends become wise to your literacy and lingual skills. I wish to have a second set of ears in the room.”

“Yes sir.”

“Not that yours can detect nearly as much as mine,” he jokes, but judging by your flat “yes sir” reply, the humor is lost on you.

“Humor is the crutch of the unsophisticated,” he reminds himself just as he does every time that clever Dunmer comes along and makes you laugh. It never does much to console him, but he repeats it nonetheless.

Ignoring your seriousness, he goes on: “Tomorrow will be strenuous. The Dwemer built exceptionally heavy and sturdy objects. I will need to conserve my magic pool as much as possible, so you’ll have to carry things on your own strength. You should ask your question and then retire for the night.”

“What’s your favorite thing about Aenydi?”

“I… I have not seen her in many years. I have been stationed here for five, and previous to this, I was in Elswyr for ten.”

You get the impression he’s never met her, or if he did it was brief at best. You suppose that makes sense, for altmer, but the fact that he doesn’t even give a generic response seems… sad, in a way.

“Very well, be off,” Ondolemar says, hoping you would protest that you hadn’t fixed his hair yet.

Instead, you say, “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, miss,” he replies with a heavy heart that will shatter when he sees that you’ve left his comb on the desk.

That would be later, now, you tip-toe across the smooth stones, easily avoiding the watchmen’s near clockwork routine. When you reach the kitchen, you pause for a moment to ensure Fevkyn is alone.

“You’re about as stealthy as a dog in plate armor,” he chides.

“Well, I tried,” you say as you walk in.

Fevkyn leans on the washtub, dish washing no doubt being his punishment for slacking off. You take a spot next to him and begin drying the cutlery, glad to have a legitimate excuse to be moving around the keep this late.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says after a moment.

“Hello, Fevkyn,” you reply.

“Ouch.”

“What would I do if I stopped making you work for it?” you ask with little laughter in your voice.

“So what did Mr. Justiciar say about my gift?”

“I did get a chance to show it to him.”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to risk it!”

He hands you plate with a wily smile. “Ah, my sweet, you must realize that you are an exception to his strict rules.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively as his hands search the water. He finds one more fork, which he quickly scrubs before declaring: “That’s the last of it.”

“You better be picking up a drying rag, boy.”

“Just after I get this tub drained for you,” he replies as he strains the lift the big wooden basin. You know he’s using a strengthening spell, but you pretend to be impressed by his muscle alone.

A lone spoon clatters on the drain and he quickly snatches it out as you both declare, “That’s the jarl’s.” before shyly glancing away.

After Fevkyn rejoins your side to start drying, you ask “So what did you want to see me about?”

“Well, I have a proposal for you.”

“Oh yeah? …What kind of proposal?” you say, glancing at him through your lashes.

For all his theatrics earlier, he seems so deep in thought, taking moment before answering, “There’s gonna be a lot of Thalmor running around here soon, and your master is leaving soon to get married… I bet a lot of these visitors are looking to take his position.”

That’s certainly true, and very pertinent to you, but you give Fevkyn a questioning look all the same.

“What better way to impress their boss except to make an arrest? And, if all the Talos chumps go to Ondolemar, then, they gotta look for a daedra worshiper, and I happen to be from a really long line of daedric friendly people”

“You go to the temple of Dibella every weekend.”

“You’re assuming it needs to be true.”

“Fevkyn, you’re not like any dark elf I’ve ever met. You’re bubbly, funny, optimistic and a prankster. You’re always smiling. No one could possibly think you’re into that stuff,” you protest, although there’s a pit of guilt inside of you that knows he’s right.

He puts down the drying rag and you pause too. He remarks, “The rest of em will air dry.”

You hang your cloth on the counter and he finally moves closer to you. His rough-hewn hands take yours as he whispers, “I can’t roll those dice.”

“I understand,” you say, trying to mask your hurt.

“I need to leave this place, and I want you to come with.”

“To where?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere you like. The rugged mountains of High Rock, the hills of Cyrodiil, the deserts of Elswyr, the planes of Oblivion. You lead and I’ll follow.”

“Why me?” you say, breaking away, suddenly flustered.

“It’s always been you,” he replies earnestly, his mask of bravado falling away. “I thought I would have an infinite amount of time to figure myself out and win you over, and- that’s stupid. I should’ve been honest with you, with myself, but, better late than never, right…? Please… Please come with me.”

“What would we do for money?”

“We could be junk peddlers.”

“what kind of life is that?”

“What kind of life is this? Day-in, day-out being ordered around, demeaned at every turn, treated like garbage for what? A few septim a year and a bed of straw that usually doesn’t have fleas? Love,” he says, moving so close you can feel the heat from his blush, “You are a rare flower blooming in darkness and all I want is to show you to the sun, so it may know what true beauty is. Please, you deserve better than this.”

“Do I?” you ask, hardly able to put yourself above your servant friends.

“More than anyone I know,” he murmurs before kissing you again.

“Fevkyn, I- This is a lot. I never knew you felt this seriously about… anything! I don’t- I’ve lived here since I was a young girl, and I- I don’t even own a coat and it’s winter-”

“I know, I know. I’ll stay as long as I can, but once I smell the smoke, I have to jump off this pyre. Please agree to come with me before then.”

“Okay.”

“I cannot wait to travel the world with you,” he says gleefully, “Now go before the night watch circles back.”

“Wait, your-”

“Kiss?” he says, gently pushing your hand down. You kiss him softly and he replies, “Keep the amulet. Now hurry.”

As you descend into the servant’s quarters, Vivian is waiting by the door with a bottle of ale. You trade details for sips, only stopping when you’re worried you’ll get drunk and blurt out his escape plans. Your coyness and glow with fuel the rumor mill, but for now you’re content to dream of soft sands, soft lips, and a soft heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Aw... poor Ondolemar. I bet in the next chapter he gets to save his crush's life and look like a bad ass :]


	4. Life Saver

Ondolemar taps his quill on the ink well’s with incessant resolution to start any minute now. Any time. Any moment now, he will begin a rough draft of his reply to Aenydi’s proposal. As per tradition, it will epic in length, so getting into it ASAP is imperative, and yet, he taps over and over, long after all the ink has left his pen.

It’s impossible to concentrate on Aenydi with you in the room. Every now and then you glance at him, surely noticing his hesitation to write, which only cripples his motivation. Even when your eyes leave him and the heat in his chest cools, he knows that you’re still _watching_ him, waiting for a command or anything really. Exasperated, Ondolemar puts the quill in its place and abruptly opens his bottom desk drawer.

“I had planned to give you this today, before guests arrived,” he says as he produces a package.

“Thank you sir,” you chirp as you take small bundle.

After carefully untying the twine around his gift, you coil it in your hand and stuff it into your apron. He absolutely loves how you squirrel things away, but you would probably not understand if he smiled and laughs so he maintains a stoic face. You master remains impassive as you unfurl the thing and marvel.

“Oh! This is wonderful!” you say gleefully, as you hold up your new apron, noting the extra row of small pockets towards the top. You suddenly remember your place and say, “Thank you sir,” like it’s an apology.

“It will be useful today, I expect.”

“Oh, sir uh- Well, it’s just so _nice!_ Perhaps I should begin wearing it tomorrow…” you say very quietly, voice trailing off as you brace for his beratement.

“I gave it to you today because I want you to look nice,” he replies sharply.

“Sorry, sir. Yes, sir.”

What Ondolemar didn’t realize is that you would untie the old garment right there in front of him. He’s quite literally _never_ seen you with anything less than your daily uniform, and his whole chest becomes heated at the relative bareness. He glances away shyly, you think, focusing on his breakfast for a few moment before suddenly standing up and declaring: “Very well,” as if his hand has been forced. “Let me help you move all that junk into your new apron.”

“Oh- sir, no, don’t worry!”

Your stutter only makes him suspicious, making him more determined to search your possessions. One of the first things he pulls from a pocket is a strange amulet with a triangle nested in a square.

Immediately defensive, you say, “My friend Fevkyn gave it to me and I don’t know what it is!”

“You sounds panicked. Do you think this is of daedric origin? No, that would be very bad, if that were the case. You’re just nervous about engagement,” Ondolemar says, examining the amulet from all sides.

Head spinning you say, “What?!”

“This is the Dunmeri symbol of marriage, miss. This necklace is most likely an heirloom. Well, maybe not the cord… Probably distant cousin or the like. Some say the stone will absorb all of the curses from the in-laws. Others say the stone can capture sorrow after the human spouses death,” he says, finally giving it back to you.

“I understand a four and a three can seem daedric in this context, but you forget about the one stone in the middle. The true nature of the numerology is beyond you, but most simply 1-4-3 means ‘I love you’.”

He is merely translating, yet the rush of adrenaline to finally say it out loud. For some reason, he chest feels even heavier now, because you don’t even react to the words.

He goes on, “I would be careful showing it around; unfounded rumors accuse such stones of containing shards of Shoegrath when given to a human, but that’s never been confirmed. Fevkyn may be young, annoying, uncultured, impulsive, stupid, bad with magic, and a compulsive liar but he’s not a daedra worshiper, at least.”

“Why didn’t he just tell me?” you ask rhetorically.

“The nuances of marriage proposal are lost on the manish races,” Ondolemar replies with a clip, “At least Fevkyn is not so marooned from his culture as to forgo intermediaries. Anyways. Enough of that. Your apron is full so take the dishes away. Then promptly run to Calcelmo and help him with preparations.

“Yes sir.”

“And miss?” he says just as you grab his plate. “I know you do not understand the system of endorsements that is integral to marriage matters, but I do fully endorse this candidate for your husband.”

“Thank you sir!” you say, oblivious to his broken heart.

You find Vivian on your way from the kitchen, and you’ve hardly gotten to catch up on her morning when you see a familiar head of black hair.

“Fevkyn!” you say, stopping your stride.

He turns with the widest smile before saying, “Miss Sessit has arrived,” with a bow, introducing the noble.Behind him is a knight, dressed in the most brilliant armor you have ever seen, and behind her are two plainer guards, not unlike the ones that follow Ondolemar.

“Welcome Knight Sisset,” you say with a curtsy. “High Justiciar Ondolemar is still in his apartment.”

“Good. I need to speak with him right away,” she states, already walking passed you like she knows where he is. Fevkyn picks up her luggage, but jokingly pretends to tip-toe away and you and Vivian laugh silently.

“What the hell are you doing with that luggage?” Faleen says sharply. “Get a move on Fevkyn, or no dinner!”

His boss’s boss snapping at him spurs the man into action, and he sprints to catch up with the attache despite the heavy case.

“Maids! Why are you standing?” the house carl snaps. Both of you rush towards the Calcelmo’s research chamber, even faster than when the house steward follows you.

When you enter, Calcelmo calls out, “Faleen, darling! I wasn’t sure that you would be able to get away from your duties!”

“I managed for you,” she says with a saucy wink, “Do you need anything before we go?”

“A bit of breakfast would be nice.”

Vivian scurries off before you can escape.

“Anything else?” she asks suggestively, making you wish you wish you had anything to do but watch this.

Glancing at you, the mage mutters, “Oh- uh… For now I think I need to study the schematics.”

Since he wasn’t biting, Fallen goes on more casually, “A small detail of knights just arrived from Elswyr. I imagine Lady Sisset and company will be joining us.”

“Brilliant!” Eidoril calls out from the archway leading in. “This place is just brilliant! Sir, I was up all night going over your reports, and I must say they were _fascinating_.”

“Thank you,” Calcelmo replies, unsure it was meant a compliment.

As the elf walks in, arms outspread he declares, “I have been looking forward to this the entire trip! This is such a unique Dwemer city, being carved into the mountain instead of- Oh! High Justiciar, I didn’t hear you come in! Ih-tam.”

“Ih-tam,” he replies, “Good morning to everyone. I trust the expedition is coming together well?”

“Is the Knight Sisset to join us?” Calcelmo asks.

“Yes, her and her guard.”

“Does she have any talent in Alteration?”

“Are you still on about the fatality of the Falmer? A degenerate species subsisting on mushrooms and bugs?” Ondolemar says dismissively before addressing the other altmer, “Where is your companion?”

“Not far behind, I’m sure. I left early to get a good look at everything.”

“That is quite a habit of yours.”

“Ih-tam guv-mer,” Liithric calls from the opening. “I apologize for my lateness. I thought we weren’t assembling until eight!”

“If only,” Ondolemar mutters.

Calcelmo turns to you and says, “Do either of you ladies have any magic of your own?”

“Restoration magic,” you reply.

Eidoril murmurs “Of course” in Aldmeris.

The room becomes even fuller as the knight and her entourage enter, Fevkyn following behind. Sisset sizes up the room and says, “This is wonderful Ondolemar! I have never been so immediately met with excitement at a salon.”

“I am surprised you do not want to rest from your long trip,” he says.

“No, I would be crushed if I missed fighting by your side again.”

As the room breaks into several smaller conversations, Fevkyn does a stupid jig behind the guards, as always, trying to make you laugh. He should not be any near the nobility, but, you imagine Sisset insisted on having the only mer on staff to herself. To explain there is a reason he is in the kitchen would be completely lost on her.

Ondolemar tries to focus on catching up with Sisset, but he watches the Dunmer slide up beside you, murmuring something in your ear that made you giggle. As much as jealousy stung… he needs to encourage these affections. You deserve to be with something special; you deserve it more than anyone else in the world. To see you with a kind soul will help him disengage.

“Ondolemar,” Faleen says firmly, bringing him back to reality. “Have you devised a tactical plan?

The other chatter quiets and everyone listens: “I, Lady Sisset, and Calcelmo will lead the party, followed by my guard, Faleen, the servants, the High Rock justiciars, and finally Sisset’s guard. Frostbit Spiders can attack from any direction, so be alert at all times. Casualties will not be tolerated on this mission.”

“That’s a relief,” Fevkyn whispers to you.

Faleen smacks him in the arm and you wince in sympathy. Ondolemar chooses to ignore the entire scene and finishes, “We’re all here so we shouldn’t waste anymore time. Let us begin.”

After the servants push open the heavy doors, the party steps into the Dwemer city of Nchuand-Zel. The tall stone pillars and piles of rubble are just like Markarth, but it feels like an alien world. No shouting cooks, visiting dignitaries, barking dogs, or playing children, just eerie emptiness.

“Everyone should take care to move as quietly as possible,” Ondolemar says as the march begins.

Noticing that you’re unnerved, Fevkyn tip-toes along with a comically wobbly stride and goofy smile, silent as everyone but constantly moving about. It doesn’t take long for Faleen to catch him in the ribs with a painful pinch, which he silently endures. From then on, all you walk as you should, silent and small.

After awhile, keeping your eyes on the ground becomes a necessity. You may not run from house spiders, but these nests are taller than even Ondolemar. The further you walk, the more they coat ever surface, narrowing the path the deeper you went. When the path become so narrow you could only walk two by two, you bury your head in Fevkyn’s arm.

Ondolemar, however, is exceptionally alert, eyes constantly scanning the room for any signs of movement, with particular attention on clutches of eggs. If anything happens to you while under his care- No. That’s not even a possibility, as long as these damned hanging cobwebs stop obscuring his sighht at every step.

“Are you certain we cannot torch these nests, even partially?” Ondolemar asks as he wipes the edge of his hood clean once more.

“I’m afraid not,” Calcelmo replies, “The webs smolder fiercely.”

Sisset interjects “Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the servant’s go first and clear the path with brooms?”

Ondolemar felt powerless to oppose the motion, and soon all three servants lead the group.With no brooms to be found in this caves, you’ve all found discarded shovel handles and sticks to wave around and clear a path. You take baby steps, trapped between your fear of getting in trouble and your fear of being eaten.

“Nothing will happen to you,” Ondolemar promises while casting a Courage spell.

You’ve never taken someone’s assurance so well, but surely you could trust your master!The next thing you know, you’re leading the party. As everyone falls behind, you wield you stick like a broadsword, absolutely certain you could take down anything in your path.WhenOndolemargrabs your shoulder, you feel indignant and whirl around to challenge him. He brushes your forehead with his thumb and suddenly you feel a bit confused about your earlier attitude.

You peer over your master’s shoulder and nearly stumble back in fear at the sight of so many large spiders. Before you can faint, Fevkyn catches you, having only just caught up to you and the rest of the group trailing yet.

“Thank you,” you say very softly to him.

Luckily Calcelmo catches up next, telling the justiciar. “That is the last chamber in the middle chambers. Beyond that door is the city proper.”

“There is a large nest of Frostbite spiders here,” he replies, pointing to the ceiling as Faleen scolds you for running so far ahead.

Liithric interjects, “Head Justiciar, if I may: I believe the best conservation of our energy is to use a calming spell. Between the three of us and Calcelmo, we should have no problem filling the entire room with serenity.”

“I agree. Soldiers will still be alert and everyone will move quietly. Sirilonwe, your magic is adequate enough to ensure the servant’s open the door as quietly as possible.”

“Yes sir.”

Knight Sisset remarks, “Wow, Ondo, if I didn’t know better I’d say you’re trying to impress me with all that tactical acumen.”

“Stay focused.”

You are the first to emerge into the next cavern, and you marvel at the beauty you find here in the grandiose waterfalls and glittering towers. As you take in the sheer scale of this single room, with many more connected to it, you slowly realize Understone Keep is only the _entrance_ to Nchaund-Zel. Even this room is just a town square of sorts (you think, anyways). The scholars chatter excitedly and explain each thing is more detail, but you prefer to tune it out and examine something so simple as a bench being so beautifully crafted.

After filing through this large chamber, the group ultimately decides to head west. As she steps into a chamber adorned with brilliant cages gilded in a warm gold, Sisset asks, “What was this room?”

“This is the armory,” Calcelmo explains. “Everyone please take care not to touch anything. The Dwemer have highly advanced security systems.”

Fevkyn stops himself just short of touching a door handle, knowing that comment was meant for him. As people begin to fan out and look around the room,you crane your neck upward to look at the ceiling, when youglimpse a shadow moving. Afraid of frostbites, you quickly grab his hand and point up.

He peers upward too, narrowing his eyes before looking back to you and saying, “Don’t worry. Everything-”

It all happens so quickly, the guttural shriek, being thrown to the floor, Fevkyn’s scream of pain and Sisset’s sword firmly in the attacker, making it end as quickly as it started. The Dunmer rolls to the side, wincing, as more creatures fill the room.You slip you hand onto the wound, using every technique of restoration you know while Vivian and Faleen join your side.

Sisset takes out two creatures in one blow, but they crawl out of defunct pipes one after another, overwhelming the room’s capacity. The fighters form a semi-circle around the non-fighters, until each swing of a mace had to be carefully timed avoid an ally. Arquen falters just once and it’s enough of an opening for one Falmer to rip off a piece of her boot, and another to bury a blow there.

As she crawls into the safe zone, she calls out, “Vivian! Help me!”

You want to shout back, “ _She can’t! She’s helping my fiancee!”_ but you’re too panicked to thing of speaking. Vivian looks between the two, the Dunmer barely holding onto consciousness and the altmer able to maintain some kind of stasis with the wound.

Eidoril inches backwards and stumbles on a rock, receiving a deep slash to his side before he even touches the floor.He is quickly reinforced by Lady Sisset, but by the stain on the stone it quick to pool.

Vivian looks at the altmer, to the fight, and then back into your welling eyes. She says to you calmly, warmly, “Darling, just keep breathing. Each breath will heal him. He’ll be fine.”

“Please no!” you shout, breaking into tears.

Ondolemar hears your sobs, and he _knows_ he is not the kind of man who makes his wife cry. His frenzied planning turns to solid resolve that this ends now, refining his fire spells into pure energy that leap between the targets. The strands of light seize each creature and stops its heart dead in an act of quick and pure destruction before the energy searches for more victims. The edges of his spell leave his sight as it travels down the pipes, but he can sense what’s around it in a way incomprehensible to his mind after. Each Falmer met a swift end, one after another, even as they fled their lairs and trails.

Without warning, he hits a wall, depleted of all the magic inside of him. Sweat covers his face and his arms tremble, but no noises fill the air at all. In the silence of a battle won, he falls to he knees in an attempt to steady his vertigo.

Lady Sisset catches him before he collapses further, murmuring, “Take it easy, Ondo.”

“The wounded…” he says, sitting back on his ass with his head in his hands.

“I’m fine, sir,” Arquen reports, “Faleen had some plasters to stop the bleeding, and a potion to reinforce my vigor.”

“Eidoril has stopped bleeding but bedefinitely needs a doctor,” Calcelmo says.

“We’ve closed this one’s wounds, but he’s in a bad way,” Liithric reports, having never seen a Dunmer this pale.

As a hum grows louder in his head, Ondolemar comments, “I have the worst migraine.”

“By the eight,” Sisset whispers as she rises to his feet. “That’s a Dwemer Colossus.”

Sirilowneruns to the door and throws her weight against it, shouting, “It won’t budge!”

“That’s the defense mechanism!” Liithric yells, “Get back here and fight!”

As it begins its lumbering towards the party, Ondolemar asks, “Calcelmo, what are its weaknesses?”

“It is impervious to blade blows, arrows, fire magic, or lightning.”

“Than ice it is!” Ondolemar declares.

“You need to sit down!” Sisset yells.

It was as if he was shifting back into the mindset that made his last attack so powerful, except now he is so depleted, so exhausted, nothing exists but void. No more injuries. No more fighting. No more anything. Despite his exhaustion, he can connect with the cold emptiness of Oblivion and channel it emotionlessly into the Colossus, until it became so fragile that it buckled under its own weight. It felt like it took a single breath or a full day, and he’s quick to collapse into Sisset’s arms.

“Your magic is incredible…” she says in a whisper of genuine awe.

“The door is still locked,” Faleen comments as she feels the frame for a switch.

“It may just be broken,” Calcelmo says. “In all of the fighting, a stray spell could have shattered the soul gem the fuels this door. See that small notch at the top? I bet that receptor is full of gem shards.”

“There should be a soul gem in this thing,” Liithric says, already rummaging through the Colossus’ remains. After finding its torso, he turns it over and pulls up a handful of purple dust, murmuring. “Damn Ondolemar.”

“Are there any large pieces that could work?” Faleen asks.

“Unfortunately, it’s ruined once it is broken,” Calcelmo replies.

“One of us must have a soul gem on their person,” Arquen says and immediately everyone begins to pat themselves down.

“I have a very small one,” you say quietly, pulling one from your apron

“It’s not been charged,” your master says without looking at it. “Not any of you? What about Eidoril?”

Liithric rifles through his companion’s things, but after checking every pocket and pouch, he shakes his head.

“What about the Dunmer?” a guardsmen says.

You kneel down and in the first pocket you find a big crystal which you eagerly pull out. You’re quick to show it to everyone, but to your horror, it is a large black soul gem. Your master is quick to take it from you, remarking, “It is filled with white soul.”

“Does it matter at this point?” Faleen says dryly. “You, girl, climb up there and put that in the box.”

You take the black gem back, and, not without apprehension, begin to climb up the rubble to the little alcove in the wall. The way up is not too hard, with a small ledge for you to perch on while you brush out the old shards and place in the new gem. The door clicks, and Vivian pushes it open a bit, while you struggle to take the same path back down.

“Jump into my arms, lass,” Liithric calls out with a smile.

Ondolemar knows he’s grinning because he’s looking up your skirt. Suddenly reinvigorated, he grabs the younger elf by the ear, chiding, “Mind your manners.”

After Liithric slaps him away, you call out, “Should I jump?”

“Yes, quickly,” Ondolemar says holding out your arms. You don’t hesitate, and for a moment, he can hold you.

After a brief argument, Ondolemar convinces Sirilowne to carry Fevkyn out instead of leaving him to die for his crimes. It’s a mad dash through the atrium, but arriving at the door out of the main city only pauses the group.

“We only have half the casting power available to us now. I don’t think your calming trick will work this time,” Sisset states.

“You underestimate emotional magic,” Calcelmo snaps, “Liithric, you and I can do this, for Eidoril. Ladies, please help Ondolemar through. Time is of the essence.”

You each take one of his arms, and his heart leaps, possibly the only energy he has to keep moving. Every time he leans on you, he feels a warmth that centers him somewhere in this world, and eases his pounding head.

“When we arrive back in Calcelmo’s lab,” Vivian says, “You fetch the litters and I’ll hurry ahead and alert the infirmary.”

“Agreed!” you say, making good on that promise as soon as Ondolemar has sat down on the safe side of the Dwemer ruin, back in the keep. Understsone guards help transport the unconscious persons, while Arquen is swept up into the arms of an exceptionally large swordswoman.

“Maid,” Ondolemar says, “Lend me your strength and take me with them.”

“I will come with you,” Sisset offers.

“I think you will go to your apartment and get settled in,” he quips as he takes your arm. Before she can reply, you’ve led him away to the infirmary just outside the keep.

The free air cleared Ondolemar’s mind, giving him a moment to think. Firstly, no servant with holes in his shoes could afford a black soul gem. Furthermore, Fevkyn can’t even be trusted to light candles with his magics, much less soul trap a black, grand soul. Clearly he was paid to hold it on someone’s behalf, so they could fill it with Falmer soul.

Calcelmo, Eidoril, and Liithric would have all known that Falmer are not sentient and therefore white souls, with no need of the black arts. Faleen could fall into that category as well, but what’s more is she would have never selected a goof like Fevkyn to assist her. His own guards would have been just as wary, having lived here five years.

The most damning fact of all is that Fevkyn had never planned on attending to expedition. Only one person of interest knew that he was going on it before he entered Calcelmo’s lab: Sisset.

It struck him as disturbing at the very least. Had she always planned to go into the Dwemer ruins, or did she have a more sinister plan at the ready? He has no proof either way, but he can’t help but pity the poor servant caught in the crossfire. Without him, you could have easily died. The law is the law, but a life for a life is also a fair exchange.

You walk into the room softly, face creased with worry. “Sir? You wanted me to let you know when Fevkyn awoke. He’s at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you, miss. Wait here for me,” he answers, standing slowly.

It’s not a very big hospital, and he reaches the cramped room in a few strides. Peering out of his room, you see Ondolemar open the door, close it, and then silence for a full minute pass before he shouts, “Nurse! Where is Fevkyn?”

That minute… A full minute. You look around your master’s room, no wider than the bed and small night stand. It would take only a second to realize the room was empty… and yet he waited sixty of them. As Ondolemar blusters about closing the perimeter of the hospital, you rush into Fevkyn’s room and see the open window and you know. You know Ondolemar let him go. As he fakes a bad mood for a week straight, you wonder what else he hides in plain sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I have to go back and play Nchuand-Zel to remember what it was like so sorry for the delay.
> 
> I love Ondolemar so much.


	5. The Other Incident

“My, my, Head Justiciar, you’ve got the best luck at this table,” Eidoril says casually as he shuffles the deck.

“I’d be luckier if anyone would bet anything,” Ondolemar says, and he notes at least one person eye his servant behind him. Of course. You could see his hand, and you were giving tells.

As the cards are being dealt, your master peers over his shoulder and says, “Check on the indisposed guest.”

“Yes sir!” you answer brightly, earning more than a few suspicious glances from the table.

You walk through the hall briskly to check on Liithric, who drank himself to sickness early this evening. When you enter the room, you find the elf face down on his mattress, completely still, until he groans, “Got anymore’a that tea?”

“Right away,” you say, hoping he would pull himself together in his time away. Fifteen minutes later, you return with a teapot, a cup, and a pile of toast. The only movement the man makes is to open his eyes when you put the tray on the wobbly nightstand.

“Miss?”

“Yes sir?”

“I gotta piss. Hel’ me piss.”

“Excuse me?” you say, taking a step back. With that shaky side table, you’re his only hope of getting out of bed, so he grabs your apron before you’re out of his reach. You begin screaming and pulling away, dragging him out of bed and making you yell louder. As his legs are pulled from the sheets, Liithric desperately grabs on the other side of your apron for purchase. Your cries turn into one long piercing shriek the makes him sputter out shushes before his head splits into two.

Just then, Ondolemar dashes into the room, and sees the elf with his noodle legs dragging on the floor, and his face buried into your clothing. Infuriated, he snatches Liithric by the back of the robe and pulls him off before throwing him on the floor. As the curious catch up to the scene, Ondolemar stares down the younger, who suddenly this realizes this will be settled with the Nord ways.

You had expected spells or curses, but what Liithric got was a beating so sound a guard eventually calls out, “Sir he’s had it! I don’t want to arrest you for murder!”

He pauses for a moment and looks the bloodied man over before finally getting to his feet. Rage still coursing through his blood, Ondolemar spits on him before dusting himself off and taking a deep breath to regain his composure.

He addresses the crowd in a professional tone despite his flushed face, “Nothing to see here. Carry along. Guards, please take this filth to the dungeon. Missus Vivian, pack his things, as he won’t be needing them. The Dominion does _not_ tolerate sexual infringement of any degree.”

“Neither does Skyrim,” says Jarl Ignmund, stepping into the room as the guards begin to disperse the crowd. “I assure you that you are perfectly righteous in the eyes of our law.”

Liithric being carried away tries to say, “I was just tryna piss,” but spits out teeth instead

Ignoring that, Ondolemar replies, “Of course it is. I am a High Justiciar, and as such I must know every law of every land I cross through. Miss, would you like to visit the priest of Mara? I do believe that is your worship, but you may visit whomever you deem appropriate in this event.”

“I would like that very much,” you say softly.

“Excellent. Prompt and proper support will cut off Vaernima’s machinations,” he says, “I shall arrange for someone to escort you.”

“My wife Helja is a fierce warrior and her cousin is the priestess of Mara in the city,” Igmund says to both of you.

“I would be honored, my lord,” you say with a curtsy.

“We take care of our own in times such as these,” he says with a nod, before barking at a passing servant, “You! Fetch my wife from the stables at once.”

“In the mean time,” Ondolemar says, “you will need to write two, identical written statement of the incident, in Aldmeris, of course. One will be for my records, and the other for the official records in Summerset Isle.”

“Of course. I-” you hesitate.

“Sit down here,” he says, pointing to the desk. He throws open a drawer and sure enough parchment is there. He lays a sheet out for you and continues, “Now I know your penmanship is poor, but do try your best.”

“Which verb/noun set should I use when referring to Liithric?” you ask.

“Yuud, for animals. Do not even grant him Ghal.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Of course,” he says very quietly, having forgotten his place for a moment.

Igmund notes that mutual exchange of little smiles, sweet and understanding. The elf’s affections are so obvious to everyone but you, it seems. When else did he see Ondolemar casually lean against anything, much less offering little advice like “Make you fi’s longer” and “jieff has two- there you go”. Vivian, packing Liithric’s things, composes a list questions to ask you later, like if you know that he talks to you more quietly than anyone else in the castle. Probably not, and she rolls her eyes internally, imagining you won’t think anything of his reaction to the assault either

“Darling,” Helja says as she walks in. “My cousin will be eager to see you.”

“You need to seal the letters before you leave,” Ondolemar says.

“I don’t have an official seal…”

“Use a fingerprint,” he says, picking up sealing wax on the corner on the desk. Using a bit of magic, the stick drips onto the paper, but you hesitate, forcing him to take you hand in his so his can press it into the drying wax. You surely understand the process, but just to be sure, he helps you with the second seal too while the other three exchange knowing looks.

“Anything else, sir?”

“No. I will be retiring promptly to write my own letters,” he says.

“Nonsense,” Igmund says. “Every Nord in this hold wishes to buy you a drink!”

Ondolemar shoots him a distrusting glance, stating, “A master’s duty is to ensure his servant’s are kept in safety.” and nods as you curtsy on your way out with Helja.

“Of course, of course, but to see such Nordic justice run through your blood surely makes you our favorite.”

“What is the purpose of your flattery?” Ondolemar says.

“Don’t be so paranoid, friend. We simply hate to see you go.”

“I’m suew.”

“Really! We have developed such a relationship in these years, and I believe the charms of the keep interest you as well.”

There is a suggestion there, but Ondolemar would rather turn on his heels and stride out of the room than address it.

Not far from the keep, you sip tea in the priestess’ house while she listens to you recount the tale. You talk for awhile, spilling about many more things than you ever intended, and the woman just nods, and nods until all the weight is lifted from your chest.

She blesses you thrice, and then gifts you a small symbol of the mother goddess to pin to your dress. As a poor person, you’re not expected to provide a tithe, so you sweep the ashes out of her fireplace before you bid your final good-bye. When you step into the starry night once more, you’re surprisingly at ease with the day’s events.

“The baker came by with the extras,” Helja says, “I bought you a sweet roll as well. How is my cousin?”

“Thank you, my lady! Good, my lady,” you say, taking it from her.

“They’re a little stale, but there’s no such thing as a bad sweet roll,” she says between bites.

“I agree!” you answer, considering you only have these in the form of scraps and burnt rejects. You savor the softness in every bite, and it isn’t until you’re licking your fingers that you realize you’re not walking towards the keep.

Once your hands are at your side, Helja begins: “When my mother brought me to Markarth for marriage, I wept all the night. I thought this place was dreary, cramped, decrepit, but the city took me in regardless. All its intrigue, travelers, silversmiths, affairs, idiots, prostitutes, and charm became part of me, in a way.”

“It is a strange city,” you admit.

“It has a very strange beauty that emanates from the very stones into ourselves. That is the source of our solidarity. Everyone in these walls is content to help or let live, and that’s what allows our city to work so perfectly.”

“Of course.”

“After all, what are we to say about what someone does in the privacy of their own home? The home is the most sacred temple, so if anything were going to interfere with that temple, it would be my business to know.”

“I understand,” you say, understanding that this conversation is a ploy for information about your master.

After a long moment, Helja asks, “Does he know about the temple?”

“No ma’am.”

“Lass, I won’t fault you if you haven’t told me everything so far. I understand your position is delicate.”

“Really! He’s never breathed a word about it in front of me.” Her disbelieving look presses you on, “I would have warned everyone! I’ve already told everyone that he is keen on spotting cords tucked under collars!”

“What about the guests? Do any of them…?”

“If anyone knows anything, they don’t know for sure. No one is going to make that accusation without solid proof. If an outsider found it, that would look very bad for the High Justiciar of Skyrim.”

“So he’s really never said anything about the _one_ building in the whole city that he’s never been in? He’s barged into every other home in this town twice.”

You reflect a moment. “No, I don’t think he’s been in every building. He’s never been in the flophouse near The Warrens, or the brothel in Dibella’s temple.”

“He slips out at night, when you are asleep.”

“But I wash all his clothes, and they’ve never smelled like piss and broken dreams, or Dibella’s perfume.”

“He has another change of clothes.”

“And who’s washing those?”

“Another washer maid,” Helja snaps.

“He barely trusts me to read his hate mail. Besides, I know he has never been inside The Warrens. He waits for them to leave, and never makes the arrest himself.”

Thinking about him arresting such miserably poor people… it twists your heart in a way. He does so much evil and yet, he is capable of such mercy, and he’s always been relatively kind to you. The more you think on it, the more complicated you feel.

“Darling,” Helja says, placing hands on your shoulders to break your train of thought. “I understand your position. It is natural to become fond of your master. I _promise_ you that no harm will come to him if you have information.”

You balk, blinking several times. “Wh-? I- I am not anymore fond of him than is my duty! My lady, I truly don’t have any information. I will tell you as soon as I know anything, regardless of the consequences.”

“Do not worry. We wish to keep your master around for as long as possible. If you change your mind, please go directly to myself or my husband.”

“Ma’am, really-”

“Come along. We should get back to the castle.”

Upon approaching the entrance, you can hear the reverb of loud, drunken singing. Helja shakes her head and mutters, “The men must have got into the wine again.”

Indeed, you can hear the Nords singing some shanty you’ve never heard before. One man sings, and then everyone joins in a refrain, which echoes so fiercely that it isn’t until you’re back in the dining room that you hear the chorus clearly:

That sweetness was fleeting

his arse took a beating

from the righteous-est mer

Old Ondolemar!

You master is at the end of the table, hiding his head in his hands while the crowd takes a good-natured jab at him. They repeat the verse three times, the mass swaying the whole time, until the last chorus dies. As it does, everyone listens to the man who jumps on the table to spin his verse:

Theeeeeere once was a mouse

with a long, pretty tail

erry night in the kitchen

the cat on her trail

but the came an elf

tall, thin, and pale

‘e rescued the mouse

and married a snail

As the chorus swells, you move closer to your master to ask if he needs anything, only to have the song break into cheers and applause, apparently for you. A well-meaning noble puts drink in your hand, but technically you are not allowed to drink and set it down on the table. Ondolemar peaks up at you and then promptly stands.

“I am removing myself from this mess and so should you,” he says succinctly over the roar of hollers and well wishes.

“Yes sir,” you reply soundly, wondering why the crowd clapped when you exited.

As soon as you’re out of earshot, he says, “I must apologize for the entire fiasco that was this day. You must be furious at me for putting you in harm’s way, and rightfully so.”

“Oh! I’m not mad at you, sir”

“How? Why?!”

“You protected me,” you say nearly skipping to keep up with his long stride, “You came so quickly! You must have been listening to make sure everything was alright.”

“Of course I was. After I sent you away, I was concerned towards the propriety of whole arrangement. It was foolish of me to assume someone a drunk like Liithric has a shred of Elven dignity about him,” he says, his pause in walking emphasizing his irritation. You look up at him expectantly and he sighs with shame, “I’m sorry, miss. I truly am.”

“I appreciate it! But master, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you answer so warmly that his heart flutters. Ever since the Dwemer Incident, you looked at him so differently… You should be mad at him, resentful Fevkyn left and yet… You both stare at each other for a very long moment, flush blooming in your cheeks.

He clears his suddenly dry throat. “Yes, well. Uh- I know you may desire to give Liithric a piece of your mind, but that may redirect his family’s ire at you. I aim to minimize the damage you endure, so I must order you to have no contact with him, or to visit the dungeons for any reason.”

“Thank you sir.”

Even that was deserving of a bitter response, not that beautiful smile when your whole face glows with happiness, the rarest of the memories he collects. Everything that isn’t this moment feels a million miles from this place, and he swears he could just reach down and-

“You should ask your question and go rest.”

For the last two weeks, he expected you to demand answers about your absconded fiancee, but you never do. “Where did you learn to fight, sir?”

He laughs nervously, admitting, “I have never been formally instructed but…” you can see him mentally weighing whether to go on or not. “I used to be quite the trouble maker in my teens.”

“Really?!”

“One question,” he says with a slight smile. “Good night miss.”

“Good night sir,” you call after, as he rushes into his room, too giddy to hide his joy any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, except if you're the person who leaves back-handed compliments on my works, in which case, fuck off. Saying you usually don't like 2nd-person stories, etc. is fine, but I about had it with people who constantly nitpick everything I publish. 
> 
> I know how the story ends. I have no need to write it. If this becomes every time I publish, I'm hearing someone bitch, Imma bounce. I abandoned the last fandom because every. chapter. it was something!! When I turned off commenting, they still got sent to my inbox so I still heard about every typo or every time the MC did something the actual reader would not. Listen, you perfectionist fuck, I edit and research, but I'm not exactly aiming for the apex of literature here. We're here to have fun, and if the writing is so bad that it affects your fun, then leave. While you're at it, take your negative comment sprinkled with niceties, and shove it up your ass thanks!!!!!
> 
> Sorry to all the nice people that had to read that. 99% of you are peaches and all the nice comments keep me going. Well, plus I want to see Ondolemar unravel at the seams ;)


	6. Back to Normal

“Got a minute to help, lass?” Chef Anton says as you enter the kitchen.

“I would if I could, but I’m so far behind,” you sigh with exasperation as you begin gathering dishes for Ondolemar’s latest guest, “I’ve got to deliver lunch to the master’s room, finish the alchemical catalog, black his boots, and I’m behind on the washing.”

“I thought all the elves leaving would make your life easier, and then this cat comes!” he remarks. “Either that or he’s likes to watch a woman sweat.”

“My life would be a lot easier if people could keep such theories to themselves,” you say as you ladle sweet yam soup into a dish. “He is running me ragged so we are apart, to kill the talk about this supposed affair we are apparently having.”

“Right. That’s why he nearly beat the man to death, because that’s normal for his kind,” Anton remarks.

“What would you know?” you retort as you drop the ladle back in the pot.

“His arrogance has certainly rubbed off on you,” Anton mutters.

Having collected two bowls of soup and plate of bread and cheese, you turn on your heels and walk out in a huff. Every time you stand still, you hear about Ondolemar’s alleged affections. Every time that rumor is spoken, he gives you another chore, yet no one will shut up about it. Even more ludicrous is the implication that you somehow return the affection, like you could really love someone who makes you back ache so hotly.

Your master’s door is pulled shut and the jarl’s dogs wait patiently outside it. Every since the Khajiit and his manservant arrived, they’ve been eager to chase them, especially Jhaskar, who resembles a house cat. You try to shoo them away lightly with your foot, but it only encourages them to jump up, wiping their dirty paws on your stomach. You try to reel back, but the hunting dogs work together to overwhelm you, and start barking when you dodge them once more.

With your master inside screaming for silence, you hush the dogs, but they don’t know the meaning of the word. You hold one bowl of soup high up and away from them, but the plate of bread and cheese is cradled between your elbow and wrist, and that is the real prize. You try to prod them away with your leg, but instead the dogs jump up on your stable leg, eventually knocking you down.

Having finally secure the confidential documents, Ondolemar opens the door and finds you sitting on the floor trying to wipe hot soup from yourself while the mutts mob and lick you. He makes a wild kick at them, missing, and they scamper off to undoubtedly return later.

“I’ll clean this up right away, sir,” you say, struggling to hold back tears.

Ondolemar grabs a cleans spot on your arm and drags you to your feet, chiding, “You should be more careful.” He looks over his shoulder at his Alfiq-Khajiit guest and says, “Jhaskar, please direct your servant to gather the documents. We shall continue this conversation elsewhere.” 

“Hurry up!” Jhaskar snaps at his bipedal manservant, “Servant must fetch lunch too!”

Ondolemar continues speaking with you, “Clean yourself up. No doubt the dogs will return and make short of this mess. Perhaps they will do everyone a favor and die from eating the shattered porcelain.”

“Jhaksar is ready when Ondolemar is,” he calls out from atop the a velvet cushion his servant carries.

“Right. Allow me to lead the way.”

He is no farther than ten steps away when he hears you sniffle. His heart twists, unable to help you for fear of adding another verse to “Ol’ Ondolemar”, but he does glance back and see you on your knees, sweeping up the mess with your hands. If only he could do something...

As luck would have it, Vivian is running late for lunch and passes the elf. He snaps his fingers and when she turns around, he says, “You will assist my servant in cleaning this mess from all surfaced. Use my facilities, as we shall be away until it is time to retire.”

“Yes sir,” she says, with a curtsy, although she would have skipped lunch to help you with such a mess anyways. As his footsteps fade, Vivian crouches down and remarks, “Don’t fuss over that. First order is getting you clean.”

“I’m already so behind,” you say, the tears finally rolling down your face.

“Well there’s nothing to do about that with soup in your hair,” she says, jostling you inside and shutting the door. “Off with it all. Your master is far too particular to let a single stain lie on your clothes. Oh, lass, don’t fret. You’ll be glowing in no time.”

“I’ll have to wear wet shifts for a week,” you say as you walk into the bathroom and draw your own bath.

“No, sir is fond enough of you-”

“Stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it! Everyone is speaking like we are in love which we are not. Our positions are absolutely, completely disparate and professional!” you say. “Besides, could you see a ‘superiorly bred mer’ such a himself ever giving a woman like me so much as a thought?”

Vivian bites her tongue as you run the bath, knowing you were in no mood to face the truth.

/ / /

Twenty minute later in the empty apartment, Ondolemar goes over the report a final time, “So it is confirmed that the Dragonborn sent Alduin to the end of time?”

“Everything Jhaskar has heard says so. Nords do not notice Jhaskar when Jhaskar does not wear clothes, so Nords speak freely.”

“Indeed. You are instrumental to the Thalmor’s efforts,” he says.

“Jhaskar hears everything at the inn. Jhaskar even hears song about certain elf protecting certain maid.” Ondolemar expression sours, and he quickly adds, “Jhaskar has solution for Head Justiciar! Jhaskar buy girl from jarl and take her to Elsweyr. Marry her to favorite servant. Girl gets new name, legend dies.”

“Ah, I appreciate the offer, but I have already made negotiations to take miss with me to Summerset.”

Jhaskar’s tail goes straight in the air. “What?”

“Where is your servant?” Ondolemar snaps, “He should be here with the food already.”

“Oh,” he says curiously, “You’re going to escort Jisyda to make sure Jisyda does not try anything funny, yes?”

“There you are!” Ondolemar says, ignoring that comment.

Back in his room, Vivian shouts, “What?! You’ve got to be mad to go to Summerset Isle!”

“Shh! Keep your voice down!”

“You trust that cruel bastard to take you all the way to Summerset Isle and then send you back in two years time? What if you’re attacked by bandits on the way? A lot of people would like to see his head on a pike,” she says, adding quietly, “myself included.”

“I know, believe me, I’ve read his mail. But what if this is my only chance to see the outside world? I haven’t been outside the walls of Markarth in a decade.”

“Darling,” Vivian says as you step out of the tub, “Have you ever thought about why he wants you by his side?”

“Training a new servant before the his wedding would be like changing horses midstream,” you say, using a clean cloth to wipe your body as dry.

“Lass, there’s no need to be this oblivious. You can at least tell me.”

You roll your eyes. “A man does one thing right and everyone thinks his affections are burning.”

“He beat the man bloody and threw him in the dungeon to rot!”

“Because Liithric made a fool of him!… and that elves, the lot of them, are quite strict about unwanted advances. It’s why they use intermediaries when courting. To approach someone who doesn’t hold the same affection is a sin on several levels.”

“At least acknowledge the possibility!” she says as you dress in your shift, wet from the knees down, but stainless at least.

“At least acknowledge the possibility that nothing!” you answer as you near the bathroom door.

“At least acknowledge that you yourself have a seed of affection growing in your heart.” You huff indignantly and put your hand on the door. “Are you going out there already?”

“I need to finish this catalog,” you say as you open the bathroom door. “Hey! What are you doing in here? You’re not to be here unattended!”

“Listen!” Skjorta, the miserable floor scrubber snaps, “I need to know if your bastard of a master sent my only sister to prison.”

“You could have asked,” you say.

“As if I can trust the likes of you!”

“Well I never! Would you forget so easily who nursed you after your miscarriage?”

“Twas two years ago, before your mind became tainted with his garbage,” she practically spits.

“You have quite the attitude, but I’ll help you still. Unless your sister made enemies of a bootlicker, master would have no reason to pursue such a paltry reward. I will look in his records to be sure, but you must run along and keep that tongue in check,” you say.

For a moment you think she might attack you, but she eventually relents and hurries out the door.

“Are you alright dear?” Vivian asks, emerging from her hiding spot.

“I’m used to it by now,” you say, mind too scattered to remember to close the door before going to his desk.

Feeling guilty, she changes the subject, “Well, I for one doubt Skjorta’s story. Why not ask the night watchman she fools around with?”

“My thoughts exactly, which is half the reason I’m looking into it,” you say as you sit down at Ondolemar’s desk. You open the bottom, right-hand desk drawer, the one filled with black leather bound books with the records of every criminal in the keep, including mundane petty thieves and scoundrels. 

“Are you allowed to look at those?”

“I am only taking a quick look,” you say, scanning the more recent entries.

After a long pause before Vivian speaks again, “You should at least acknowledge how comfortable you’ve become.”

“Oh please,” you answer, “as if we all don’t read the occasional letter or journal.”

“It would be a queer day that I would be sitting at my master’s desk in a wet shift, reading her private records.”

“He wouldn’t mind,” you say.

Just then, Ondolemar enters his room: “I wouldn’t mind-” he stumbles back as he covers his eyes, “By the eight! Ah! I’m sorry! The door was open!”

You rush into the bathroom, calling back, “You said you wouldn’t be back for some time!”

“I didn’t see anything!” he shouts, blushing furiously.

“Then how does Ondolemar know to cover Ondolemar’s eyes?” the Jisyda mutters under his breath.

“Quiet you! You had best close your eyes as well.”

“Maid is in other room,” he reports. Ondolemar slowly opens his eyes, allowing him to enter the room and find his black book tossed on the ground.

“Why were you looking through my records?” Ondolemar asks as he picks up the volume.

“I was attempting to verify a rumor.”

“I see,” Ondolemar says, dusting off the book. “Considering your state, I understand using your time as such. Missus Vivian, please retrieve the wet garments so I may put an end to this nonsense.”

“Yes sir,” she says. A few moments later, she walks out of the bathroom with a heap of wet garments over her arm.

After shaking out the over dress with warm magic, he notes, “It is quite disturbing how many shades lighter your dress is now, miss.”

“Yes sir,” you call back, shivering and stark naked.

“Are these your stockings? They will never last the journey. You must buy new ones,” he orders. Once he feels the sevants’ curious glances he changes the subject, “Jasyda, please serve the ladies lunch. I shall be done with this in a moment.”

He hands the last garment back to Vivian, and then leaves without another word. When she is sure he is long gone, she shuts the bedroom door, and then rushes into the washroom, gasping, “Lass, I think he loves you.”

“Excuse me?!” you say while snatching your clothes

“Who else could be caught snooping like that not even be questioned? You should have seen how furiously he blushed when he handled your clothing.”

“As most men would!”

“Nay, he’s keen on you. Think about how much he indulges you.”

You snap, “If you have time to gossip, surely you have time to help me dress.”

“Of course, dear. I can help you with your chores as well. I swear I’ll catch him in the act yet!”

In a mix of anxiety and relief, you answer, “Mara bless you.”

You work together until dinner, when you part so that Vivian can eat and you can finish cataloging all of Ondolemar’s Nival Skyrim Flora samples. You carefully examine each herb collected from the last day of the salon and compare it to his enormous reference book before making a careful notation in the pressing book. As time goes on, you become more and more familiar with the plants, and soon, you’re able to finish a page in two minutes.

As the chore becomes automatic, you begin to daydream of the plants you will find in Summerset. Surely you will not be allowed leave the grounds much, but still, sweeping gingkos, fragrant wisteria, butterflies, songbirds, all in a mild climate where the chill doesn’t kill. You’ve heard every door frame is gilded in gold, that the tiles on the road are thousands of years old, but gleam like mirrors. A society so well-ordered a ring on the wrong finger can constitute a crime.

“Maid,” Ondolemar says as he walks in, “Have you drawn my bath?”

“Yes sir,” you answer politely, “and fetched the mail.”

He’s stunned for a moment though, having never seen you with clean body, hair, and clothes. You glow more beautifully than he ever could have imagined, with glittering eyes to match. He shakes the flutter from his mind and says, “Finally, a semblance of normalcy,” as he walks by, pausing only to place a pastry wrapped in his handkerchief on the desk beside you.

“Yes sir! Thank you sir!” you say as he closes the door behind him.

“My guest has departed, thankfully,” he says as he undresses. For whatever reason, he’s blushing, thinking about you earlier in the day, nude in this very room.

“Ah, good- Oh! Not that I minded your guest,” you say before taking a big bite of the scone his left.

“I did. Jhaskar is quite capable of using pronouns but simply refuses, which I find quite irritating. If we speak in Ta’agra, certainly it is called for, but in Aldmeris it is just clumsy!”

“Agreed,” you say, jostling the pile of letters in your hands.

“Hopefully these next two weeks will be settled, with less of this incessant chatter.”

“Oh yes, sir. I could do without the chatter.”

“Make no mistake, it is product fabricated by under stimulated minds,” Ondolemar says as he slips into the bath.

“Absolutely. With the threat of Alduin gone, they must drink to something else, anything else.”

“For a year, you have been a gentleman’s ladymaid with no issue, and now they seek to construe every moment between I and you as a scandal.”

“A scandal could not exist between persons such as us,” you assure yourself, mostly.

“Of course. I have never shown you an ounce of favor in any regard. In fact, you did a poor job blacking my boots today.”

“I’m sorry sir,” you answer, relieved to hear his coldness.

“Make no mistake, if you perform poorly in Summerset, you will be cast off and left to fend for yourself.”

“Yes sir,” you reply. “Sir, will your guards be joining us?”

“Yes. As you know, I have been asked to escort Liithric back to the Isle so he may receive his sentencing. They will accompany us to the edge of the Dominion, at which time, they will turn back to escort the new High Justiciar to Markarth.”

“Wonderful!”

“Miss, you may begin to read the mail.”

“Yes sir!” you reply cheerily, all the feelings between you safely separated by the opaque door, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and thank you for the support! It was a bit of a tantrum but I just didn't want the same thing to happen as the last three fics. Thank you thank you thank you!!!!


	7. The First Day of Travel

You feel like a queen perched on your straw bed, new cloak wrapping your shoulder while your friends act as an eager court that peppers you with questions.

“Where will you stay during your travel?”

“Inns and Thalmor homes,” you answer

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“A little.”

“I would be afraid of going through Hammerfell. Their civil war makes ours look like a scuffle.”

“Oh no, we’re exiting Skyrim via Falkreath, going through Cyrodiil, and then to Valenwood.” 

Although outwardly you remain calm you remember Ondolemar’s words: “There are three things a border cannot contain: wars, lovers, and idiots.”

Vivian notes, “That’s a very nice cloak you bought yourself, lass.”

“Oh no master-” you don’t stop yourself in time. The men and women lean in, wildly optimistic you’ll spill more. You right yourself and say, “It is part of my new provisions.”

“Those are mighty fine boots. Provisions as well?” Thuron asks.

“Well! It’s quite the trip and we cannot tire the horses by riding in the cart all the while,” you say.

“And that new blanket?”

“Ill weather may force us to camp out.”

“Three books?”

“I have much to learn about their customs,” you answer coolly.

Skjorta teases, “The real question is, how far along are ya?”

You jump up in rage, but a few hands pull you back down.

“Lass, relax,” Vivian says, handing you a filched bottle of wine. “We only tease because we fear we won’t be there for your first birth.”

“I promise I’m not getting pregnant.”

“Aye, but is that your promise to keep?” she quips, promptly moving along. “We all pitched in to get you a little something.”

“Oh! You didn’t have to! Thank you!” you say as you take the notebook.

“It’s your duty to write your legacy… And to write all of us as often as you can. We’ll miss you something fierce. Oh, I remember when you were just this tall, and now look at you…” she sniffs back a tear, “All grown up.”

You throw your arms around Vivian and soon the entire group embracing you. Though you’re certain everyone in this room has frustrated you to tears at one time or another, you’ll miss your family dearly. These the ones who helped you through your first day, your first duties, first cycle, your first heartbreak, and in a few short hours you would separated for two years and some change.

None of your closest friends sleep that night, preferring instead to swap tales about you. You got to relive the time you broke a tap and flooeded the whole second floor, and revel in the victory of stealing an entire magnum of wine for Vaoda’s birthday. Duty calls you off earlier than usual, and you must tear yourself away, lest your tardiness irritate Ondolemar on the first day of the expedition.

“Good tam, sir,” you say, delivering his usual breakfast.

“Have you double-checked everything?” he asks as you deliver food to the guards.

“Yes sir, triple-checked,” you answer on your return, taking one more glance around the room for any items left behind.

“And your own provisions?”

“Everything I own is either in this sack or in my apron.”

“Indeed. Now if only the cold rain should recede.”

“A sunny day in Skyrim is rarer than a Khajiit who doesn’t like sweets.”

“I hope you don’t say such things when we meet the Khajiiti ambassador in Cyrodiil!”

“No, sir. I apologize, sir.” 

Without letters or books to distract him, he eats very quickly, only pausing to ask: “Are you certain you are prepared? I can send ahead for anything you may need. For instance, you failed to realize you will need a water skin for traversing the jungles of Valenwood, so I have already arranged for pick up on arrival.”

“Thank you sir! You have been most kind in preparing me.”

“Spend less time groveling and more time thinking! Do you need anything?”

“Well,” you say, reaching into your apron, “How do you think I should dispose of this?”

He looks at the amulet, Fevkyn’s amulet, and sputters, “W- Why would you need to get rid of it? Are you not waiting for your paths to cross again?”

“I don’t want to give it away, trust me, but- well, the other servants fear it so thoroughly, I think there could be a misunderstanding about it…” you say, sadness in your eyes.

“Fine. I will see to it that it causes you no harm,” Ondolemar answers, hand outstretched. You drop it in his palm, and then he waves you away to take the dishes.

He resolves to keep the amulet safe on your behalf, with every intention of giving it back the day he locates your fiancee. Still, the items would have… implications if found, so he must keep it in the most secure places, around his neck. He glances around before slipping it on, ignoring the giddy feeling of wearing your engagement piece.

Having no more business in his room, Ondolemar leaves, not bothering to cast last looks back at the hovel he had been forced to reside in. The days on the road would be hard, but the prize of returning to civilization would be worth a triply difficult trip. He arrives at Markarth stables ahead of you, but behind his guards, who pulled Liithric from the dungeon and slapped him in chains that sunder his connection to magic. His face is ashen from the severance, but the High Justiciar harbored no pity for the sorry creature.

“Let me make one thing clear,” Ondolemar says, “It is a privilege to be left alive, must less repatriated to the isles for sentencing and punishment. A single infraction is enough to revoke that privilege. You will be as silent as the grave on this trip and keep your hands to yourself. I don’t want to see some much as a lecherous glance. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir,” he answers, having resigned to his fate.

“Arquen, please apply the gag,” Ondolemar says, glancing towards the city gates, wondering where you were. Any delay could not be tolerated, and he fears you have changed your mind at the last moment. Just as his anxiety pitches into a peak, you emerge from the Dwemer doors with a smile so bright he knows that’s the reason the drizzle lightens just then.

Almost losing himself for a moment, he turns back to the carts, already loaded. “Right, well, Sirilowne, chain him to the back of cart so he can’t run from it, and Arquen, please take the driver’s seat.”

After a few minutes, your adventure begins. Both carts, hitched to each other, lurch forward and begins to pull away from the city walls. The caravan moves at an easy walking pace, allowing you to occasionally glance back at Markarth until even the tallest tower fades from sight in the dark, gray morning.

The travel itself is incredibly dull. Elves don’t talk to pass the time, not even to greet a guard or traveling merchant on the road. You must entertain yourself, mostly by plucking what juniper berries and flowers you find this early in the season.

You have a bundle of red blooms in your hand, when you spot a similar blue flower off the path. You hike up your skirts and scamper into the shrub, certain you can grab it and get back to the caravan unnoticed. Just as you pick it, Ondolemar grabs your arm and spins you around.

“Who told you that you were allowed to leave the path at any time for any reason?” he snaps as he drags you back. “Even worse, I was not particularly quiet in my approach and you were still completely unaware! Any Forsworn could have harvested your flesh in a moment.”

As he tosses you back on the path, he expects a mournful or annoyed look, but you smile at him kindly, knowingly…

Incensed that you might think you understand his annoyance, he continues his lecture: “Do you understand how common rock slides, or even wolves? Wait. What are you doing? Are you stuffing the flowers in your apron?”

“Er- Yes sir,” you admit, already sensing that’s the wrong answer.

“Have some sense, woman! You’ll damage the flower and render it useless for alchemy or display. Lay it in the cart until you have the time to bind and hang them for drying! Honestly.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” you answer sweetly with a brief curtsy.

“W- Well- Why aren’t your pinkies splayed?! If you cannot even perform a proper curtsy, you will be out of a job before you set one foot on the isle!”

“Thank you sir.”

“For what?!” he practically shouts. The guards glance back curiously, and Ondolemar must calm his frayed nerves.

“For taking the time to teach me properly,” you say sweetly while matching the six-foot seven-inch elf’s stride.

“Yes, well, someone must teach you humans how to act. You certainly aren’t edifying each other,” he retorts, heart racing. “Now pay attention. You have passed at least two juniper trees. If you wish to make decent coin from your flower picking, you must have enough stock to sell to every alchemist along our trip.”

It never occurred to you that you could make your own money, and thus you’re inspired to pluck everything from the path, even a few things you would later find out were useless. From the rear, Ondolemar watches you carefully, ready to reprimand and secretly happy to watch.

Just before noon, the party stops a little before the halfway point of the journey at a small Dibellan shrine. The rest of the trek will be extremely rocky, and even the strong Nordic horses will need rest before negotiating that unkempt path.

You know you’re to unhitch the horses and take them to water, but, you’ve never unhitched a horse in your life. You had assumed you could figure it out on the fly, but there is nothing intuitive about the altmeri harness and everyone stares at you intently.

Ondolemar cannot allow deviations from his strict routine. They will have to travel two hours well after dark already, as there are no suitable places to camp along the way (not that camping was ever a consideration). You have been struggling to unhitch these horses for five whole minutes now, and he must get things back on track. He marches up to the front muttering, “By the divines” out loud before swiftly grabbing your hands to place them on the right latches. 

“Those two!” he says bluntly, ignoring that feeling that’s been coming up ever since he saw you in your shift. “Those are night time thoughts only,” he reminds himself. 

He needs to concentrate on the task at hand, making sure your inexperience with horses doesn’t endanger you. He follows at a distance, half-supervising, half-admiring.

After a long moment, he remark, “You must let go of the reigns if they are to drink.”

“Oh, of course,” you say abashedly, “Thank you sir for being so patient.”

“Some poor mer has to do it,” he says, pretending to rub his dizzy head to hide his dar cheeks from you.

“By Mara’s grace, what is that?!” you shout.

Ondolemar looks up, startled at first, the laughomg jovially: “Tis only the fearsome mudcrab. Take a step back.” 

When you do, the creature is enveloped in a ball of flame that rises as suddenly as it dies. He instructs, “Harvest its claws. The meat will be cooked.” The way you look at him, confused on all fronts, it’s cute. You hesitate, only relenting when he adds, “I promise.” 

His word is good enough for you and you retrieve your new scissors to snip off one of the limbs.

“Don’t… do that,” Ondolemar mutters, having just purchased those. “Here, allow me.”

He crouches down and pulls out a small, thin dagger, from his boot. The tool is much better suited for slicing chitin, and he quickly cracks the first claw open. He scoops out the meat with the tip of his knife, and offers it you you.

You accept the treat readily, wondering if the magic would affect the flavor. Not that you have much comparison. You’ve never had crab before and the texture surprises you, more tender than salted fish you were used to. Even the company of your light lunch is different; you’ve never witnessed your master so relaxed.

When he catches your stare, his shoulders square once more. He declares, “Powdered mudcrab chitin is an alchemy ingredient,” and tosses the empty shell at you as if to “make up” for his kindess.

“Thank you sir!” you say anyways..

“You have hold of this situation, so I am leaving to visit Dibella’s shrine. Encourage the horses to drink their fill, and when they have, bring them back to the cart. There will be enough time for you to say a swift prayer if you like, and then we must keep moving.” 

After you’ve hitched the horses once more, you approach the shrine with one of the flowers you picked, laying it on the stone. After a quick prayer, the group proceed with the second leg of the day’s trip

The road grew craggy and overgrown as the sun grew in the sky. No longer dis guards lurk the path, yet you felt like you’re being watched from every angle. At darkness, you stop gathering herbs altogether, too nervous to stray from your place behind your master. Markarth has its chirps, not the night birds, the rustle of grass, the eyes in the distance… 

Ondolemar remembers you fearfully shuffling through the Dwemer ruins, clasping Fevkyn’s hand tightly for support. He sees the fear color you face, and tentatively holds out his own hand for a similar comfort. It was, of course, only derived from the older and wiser guardian, and definitely did not have any romantic implications. Absolutely none. Imagining how your fingers fit between his was strictly a tactical necessity. Yes. Tactical. He holds out his hand for a long, unanswered minute; you’re too busy searching the forest in the dim magelight to notice his hand. When you finally glance towards him, Ondolemar loses all his nerve and swiftly rescinds the offer.

Entering Falkreath was a relief to everyone, who collectively relax their shoulders. After the cart is parked out, Sirilowne grabs their bags while Arquen leads Liithric to the inn. You simply wait for instruction, which doesn’t come until they’re a few steps away. 

“Please fetch your bag. We shall carry my trunk together,” Ondolemar says. He would rather not carry in his baggage, full of heavy records books and gold, but he could not risk it being stolen. He is perfectly capable of invoking your help, after all, you are to act as his manservant in every way.

As such, he shouldn’t take exception of the glances the night guard. He knows Nords by now, and each of them are thinking, “He’s making her carry more than him?” He assures himself that to carry it himself is an insult to your servitude, and perhaps, not possible, as the trunk is quite heavy. However, the scoff of one guard in particular irritates Ondolemar’s pride enough to discretely cast a strength spell and then yank the luggage from you.

“Are you sure?” you ask, confused, “That thing weighs as much as a horker.”

“I only wished for assistance because the trunk is so unwieldy, but as you are a great deal shorter than me, you are of no help, and it quite a deal easier to deal with it myself,” he replies shortly, despite the fact that his muscles are on fire. It weighs like two horkers, but Ondolemar not about to follow that stereotype of “elven frailty” he knows the guards ascribe to. Besides, he would rather die than admit a spell he used is not strong enough.

Trying to distract from his struggle, he says: “Tomorrow, you will have some time to yourself. Have you ever received such a generous gift?”

“No sir,” you say before rushing ahead open the longhouse door for him.

“This is one of the many benefits to supporting the Thalmor,” he says, carefully negotiating the step-up. “This is what happens when mankind rises to the highest level it could achieve.”

Once he gets inside and sees the tall stairs up to the guest room, he relents and sets the case down.

“Your room is here,” he says, sliding open a panel somewhat concealed in the wall. The room is as wide as the bed, with only a little extra room lengthwise for the trunk to slide in. He takes pity on your situation, but you’re thrilled. You’ve never slept in a real bed: just hay on stone slabs so common in Understone Keep.

“Thank you sir!”

“If you need anything before I can introduce you to the jarl tomorrow morning, I’ll be upstairs,” he says, throat quickly going dry.

“Thank you sir!” you say serenely.

He clears his throat. “Yes, well, good night miss.”

“Good night sir!” you reply.

You catch each other’s direct gaze, and neither move for a time, enraptured for a moment. Confused at how fast your heart is racing, you glance away, and that is when Ondolemar escapes upstairs, grateful he’ll never have the nerve to kiss you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Sorry for the delay. Pretty soon I won't have to play Skyrim to remember what things are like so it will eventually go faster.
> 
> Ondolemar is tall. So tall. Imperial measurements in medieval settings were a little wonky though. He could be recorded as anywhere from 6'4" to 6'10", depending on the "standard" measurement of the area. This elf is any size you want as long as it's talllll. It's nice to have a boi that I can safely assume is taller than every reader. Forehead kisses for everyone!!! (eventually)


	8. Falkreath

Zaria had not even taken the key from her shop’s lock when the door flew open. Ondolemar nearly clipped her with the door, but he’s not going to apologize and acknowledge his apparent eagerness.

“I am placing an order to be picked up by my servant later,” he says with so much as a hello.

She might have voiced her annoyance if she thought it would help, but that would work against her ultimate plan to get this asshole out of here. “Please, browse as much as you like.”

“I know what I want. The only question is do you have it,” Ondolemar states, glowering at the pitiful store. 

“I’ll do my best,” she says, tapping into a well of patience.

“Two bundles of lavender, one bundle creep cluster, two threshes of wheat ground for alchemy, a quarter pound of void salts, a draught that can cure Bone Break Fever in horses, and a satchel of tea; I need a very particular composition.”

“What are the specifications?”

“Equal parts powdered blue and yellow mountain flowers and the smallest touch of taproot.”

She pauses to reflect on that formula, then replies,“Understood. I will begin preparing your order straight away. I could procure the wheat for you, or you can buy it from the Corpselight farm for a little cheaper. They do the milling for my ingredients so they always have a little coarse cut around.”

He grimaces at the name, but relents: “I appreciate your frankness but it does make me question you?”

She’s already mentally spending the money; Falkreath is no honey pot: “I will have your order ready an hour past noon.”

“Good. I will settle the bill tomorrow morning,” he says. Without anymore remarks, he let’s himself out of the shop as abruptly as he came in. 

In the early afternoon you stroll into the shop. You walk straight to the counter as your curious eyes peer around.

“Good afternoon, miss,” Zaria says, “Feel free to browse.”

“I’m here to pick up an order for my master,” you reply politely.

“What’s his name?” she asks, under the guise of having more than one. She never learned any of the elves’ names thus far.

“High Justiciar of Skyrim Ondolemar Thromaire.”

“Like the song?”

“What?”

“Oh, never mind. His order is ready. I bundled it up for you.”

“Thank you!” you say cheerfully, “Would it be too late to place an order for myself if we must leave tomorrow early? I would like some green tea for my monthly, please.”

“Actually, there is some in ol’ Ondolemar already order for you,” Zaria says. The two soldiers confirmed what she had only read in books: elves did prefer to use lots of honeycomb and taproot for a similar effect.

“Are you were interested in buying alchemy reagents?” you ask politely

“I’ll take a look,” she answers with encouragement. You quickly learn that most of what you picked is useless, but Zaria is kind enough to reassure you. “All new alchemists do it. Some plants just look special for no good reason. Although, you never know. Maybe the use hasn’t been discovered yet!”

“You’re so nice!”

“Why thank you!” she says, a little thrown off by someone so polite in a rough town like this. “You know, junipers grow all around this area. If I were you, I would save them for the next town where they may be less plentiful. Then you’ll get a better price for them.”

“That’s quite kind!”

She laughs, “My stock is full on juniper at the moment, so I might as well help out the next alchemist. Where are you going next?”

“Once we get through the Jerall Moutains, we’ll stay at The Giant Rock Inn to rest the horses.”

“Oh, so you’re going to Cyrodiil. I hear the weather is very nice there. Is that your ultimate destination?”

“No, ma’am. We’re going to Summerset Isle, the big island, to a small inland town call Machis,” you answer as if you had only just memorized the information.

“Really! I’ve heard it is very difficult for humans to get onto the Isles. But, if you do arrive, these mountain flowers will fetch a very high price. They cannot grow in the warm, summery Isles. However these grass pods are really only used in Skyrim. Most people prefer using their local grass in their alchemy. I’ll give six gold for them. Even if you get over the mountains I guarantee the price with double.”

You ultimately settle on nine for the grass pods, but it still seems like an incredible amount of money when she counts it out. You stare at the coins for a long moment, until you realize you’re advertising how miserably poor you are. Still… A year’s salary for picking some plants on a walk. 

Filled with equal parts amusement and sorrow at your poverty, Zaria says, “I have a personal issue that needs solving. I would give you five gold and a few herbs for the trouble.”

Fourteen gold in your pocket and herbs? You are in! “What can I do for you ma’am?”

“It’s both a delicate matter and a well-known secret.”

“You can count on me!” you say with confidence; there’s no one around for you to gossip with anyways.

“Have you met Hust, the priest of Arkay? He’s very dear to me, and he is quite inclined to me as well. Unfortunately, Runil, the head priest, opposes it.”

“Why?”

“Runil claims that ever since we started becoming close, that we’re slacking on our duties. Between you and me, Hust is like a son to Runil, and what father isn’t a bit wary of his son’s new sweetheart?”

“How can I help?”

“You seem like just the person to persuade Runil to let Hust and I begin courting properly. You know the altmer mind better than anyone else around here. I could really use the help.” 

“I’ll think of something” you say with a nod, though you have no idea what.

“When you complete the task come back here for your reward.”

“Well, Actually… Perhaps you can help me too. I’m look for someone, and I’m not sure if he came this way.”

“I’ll try to be of help. What’s his name?”

“Ah, I had better not to give a name, but, he’s a very handsome dark elf, not too tall, with a notch in his right ear, and a big scar on his elbow. He couldn’t grow a beard or cast a spell if his life depended on it. Has anyone like that come into Falkreath?”

“…Well yes, actually.”

“Really!?”

“Er, uhm. Perhaps I have a bit of Skyrim in me but I usually think all elves look the same. It’s probably not the same guy.”

Reneging on your coyness, you say excitedly. “His name is Fevkyn and he is my fiancee!”

She bites her lip and sighs.. “There’s no easy way to put this so I’ll just say it: the man you’re speaking of was here a week or so ago. He was here with a rough looking woman and they were… eloping.”

So that’s where Skjorta’s sister had disappeared to… You should be angry or upset, but mostly, you feel stupid. Of course Fevkyn hedged his bets. He probably proposed to a half dozen girls…

“As it goes, I suppose,” you quip in a daze. “I should get back to my duties.”

You scoop up the packages and rush out the door. Ondolemar almost stops you, but you walk passed soo quickly you manage to make it clear out of town and towards the stables without a word. Packing the last of Ondolemar’s order into takes all of fifteen minutes, and then you’re left with nothing but your thoughts. The one time that you need a pile of work, you have peace to reflect on how you could be so naive.

You determine that you’ll use at least one of your coins to nurse your self-pity. You’ve never drank in a real pub, but you march over to Dead Man’s Drink and find an isolated seat like you’ve done it all your life. When you finally receive your beer, your spirits lift by the mere fact that you have a whole pint to yourself. No need to hide it, or share a meager portion with a dozen others. A whole beer to yourself. You’re savoring a long sip when someone asks, “Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

“Of course not, sir,” you say politely, scooching over so the old Altmer priest can sit down.

“Blessings of Arkay on you,” he says jokingly. “What’s your name, miss?”

You answer, if only to be polite, and reciprocate the question for the same reason.

“Runil,” he says, “I apologize that I did not attend to you personally when you visited the graveyard earlier. Many visitors avoid the grim landmark or treat it like a curiosity, but Hust told me you were very respectful.”

“Hopefully so,” you say, wishing the conversation to end soon, but having no heart to be rude to Runil.

“Hust is such a good caretaker when he’s paying attention to his duties.”

You know what he’s referring to, but you would rather think about anything but love at the moment. Still, you can’t be give a priest the cold shoulder. “Oh?”

“Unfortunately, he is often wrapped up with his… friend.”

“The wonders of love…” you say with an eye roll, “I remember struggling to keep up with my chores because there was too much divinity in one person.” You take a long drink of your beer, “Puh, pish posh.”

“Are you the myopic sort that doesn’t believe in love?”

“I prefer to avoid curses when I can,” you answer facetiously.

“That seems a bit extreme! Love is the most important emotion; it makes life worth living.”

“It makes life miserable,” you reply, mentally conceding that you’re already drunk. 

“Well- I- You’re the last person I ever expected to hear that from!”

“Huh? You don’t even know me. Anyone who know me knows I am dedicated to my career and nothing else. When is love gonna put bread on the table, coin in my pocket, huh? People need to focus on their roles and tuck away their undying affections away somewhere private where they won’t bother the rest of us with sense!” you say, ending your rant by slumping on the table. “Better to let your whole life pass you by than fall into such foolishness…”

“Miss, I promise it isn’t as bleak as you think. Your friend is here so I will depart to correct my oldest wrong first. I look forward to continuing this conversation later.”

“Okay, sir. I apologize for being so coarse.”

“I understand,” he says warmly, seeing the sadness in your eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Runil had no sooner stood up than Ondolemar had taken his seat. “I thought he would never stop talking.”

“Master!” you say, straightening yourself.

“Barmaid,” he says, snapping his fingers a few times, “A mead. Now.” When Narri slams it on the table in front of him, he remarks, “I imagine this will be as awful as the service.”

“Sorry, sir. I picked up all of their Black-Briar Mead for the trip, so the bar has none to serve.”

“Not every fault of the world is your own,” he replies tersely.

For a long while, you both sip your drinks and search for something to say to the other, but nothing feels right. Finally, you ask, “Is Liithric still in this inn?”

“No. He has been transferred the jarl’s holding cell. Sirilowne is guarding him currently, as the room is nothing more than the town’s drunk tank.”

“Because her magic is better, I suppose.” 

“That is irrelevant. The Sundering Chains around his neck and hands render him unable to tap into magic.”

“A small piece of steel or a thin bone is all one needs to pick a lock.”

“And how do you know that? Never mind. I’d rather not know. Sundering Chains cannot be so easily picked. Even detaching one’s hand will not guarantee freedom.”

“A desperate man may try to escape now and hope to sort it out later.”

“Even the most desperate mer will not try anything if there is uncertainty that he will be reunited with magic. Living without magic is like a fish without water, an orc without war, a Nord without ale. To die without magic is to damn one’s soul to Mundus for eternity, never to reascend into Aetherius,” he explains, shuddering at the thought. Preferring to take his mind from such horrors, he goes on “We shall leave Falkreath the morrow after next. I spoke to the stable hand and he agreed that the horses will need ample rest before attempting the mountain pass.”

Another silence permeates, you, content to enjoy your ale, and Ondolemar content to enjoy your company. When his food arrives, he lays his gloves on the table, and you instinctively take them to brush off any dust that may have accumulated since you last tended to them. He thinks of offering you a bit to eat, but sensing your foul mood, he hesitates.

The inn door flies inwards and the whole bar cheers. Both of you turn to take in the sight, you immediately scoffing and whirling right back around. Hust is carrying Zaria over the threshold and all the Nords give three cheers. The couple cannot even address the crowd, which offers toasts, one over the other. Delacourt strikes up a song, and soon The Dead Man’s Drink is alive with people dancing, chatting, buying drinks for one another, and celebrating the budding relationship. 

Runil walks in few minutes later, and another round of cheers erupts as the townsfolk slap him on the back and tease him about taking so long to relent. Soon, even the old mer is dancing in the Nordic ways, jovially, drunkenly. You would join the revelry, but you’re feeling too sorry for yourself to risk looking like an ass. Your focus is on making yourself as small as possible in this far corner.

“Oh thank you so much!” Zaria says when she finally makes her way towards you.

“I didn’t do anything,” you admit.

Runil leans in between you and Ondolemar, placing one hand on each of your shoulders, “Of course you did, dear. You made me realize how blind I was, to suppose one should place one’s career over love. When will a coin ever comfort your tears?” He pats Ondolemar on the back for emphasis and the justiciar rolls his shoulders to rebuke the implications.

“It’s doing a fine job now,” you say with a grim smile, offering up your cup.

“Oh now! Why don’t you honor this old mer with a dance and forget your worries that way?” he says, smiling like a kindly grandfather.

“I don’t know how to dance,” you answer shyly.

“Neither do half these folks!” Zaria says with a laugh. 

Ondolemar is surprised at how quickly you spring to your feet, envious that you would be so eager to spend time with anyone but him. The simple folk of Falkreath will dance with anyone they please for half-a-song, a whole song, or even several as in the case of you and your partner. The monk is not forceful or overly handsy, but Ondolemar still watches him very carefully, ready to rescue you at the first sign of trouble.

As the bard’s song turns gentle, Runil asks, “Would you like to know how they dance in Summerset?”

“You know?!” you ask excitedly.

“I grew up there.”

“Wow! That’s amazing! I would love to learn.” 

“Now, as the more comely of us, you hold out your hand like this with your palm facing up, like you’re offering something. Yes, good. Now I will place my fingers just on top of yours. I don’t know you nearly well enough to take your whole hand so I only touch just the fingertips.”

Jealousy’s gnawings finally persuade Ondolemar to charge across the room, cut between you two and chide Runil in Aldmeris, “Old man, your technique is more out-dated than your clothing or hair.”

“Right on cue!” Runil thinks gleefully. “Quite right! You would serve as a better instructor.”

“Indeed,” he answers, waving his hand to shoo Runil away. “Now pay attention, miss, because it is important that you understand our way, not simply ape them.”

“Yes sir.”

“You don’t hold out your hand like you are balancing a platter. You outstretch it like a branch searching for the sun,” he says with a surprising ardor. “That will do fine. And now I will place my fingers on yours as delicately as the sun touches a leaf. Anything else would be seen as-” His fingers brush yours and his throat utterly closes. The light skin-on-skin contact flusters him to stillness, while you wait patiently for the next instruction.

At the request of the smith, Delacourt strums his lute and sings out:

“There once was a frog  
The prettiest thing  
She hopped from the dog  
With no time to sing  
Then a good mer  
cast a great fog  
The girl kept ‘er health  
‘n he married a hog”

Then, to your horror, the entire inn sings out: 

“Their love was so fleeting  
his pride took a beating  
Poor righteous-est mer  
Old Ondolemar!”

Mortified, you bolt passed your master, out of the inn, out of town and towards the stables, hoping you could die of shame there before you had to hear another chorus of that dreaded song.

“Running off does nothing to clear your innocence,” Ondolemar calls out as he follows you.

“It’s ridiculous!” you shout as you bluster passed a guard. “I would never, ever- You would never-!”

“Skyrim is backwards and primitive in every way. Nowhere in all of Summerset would anyone take such exception to a lady waiting on a man, or vice versa for that matter,” he says, easily catching up to you.

“I am not stupid enough to conduct an affair with my master! That is my very nightmare, to have my whole career dashed for nothing, for some fleeting affection!” you protest.

Somewhat crushed by how thoroughly you rebuke him, Ondolemar tries to appear indifferent. “Our respective careers and engagments.”

“Your respective engagement,” you correct, adding more quietly, “Mine was simply an ass hedging his bets.”

“You mean to say-”

“Fevkyn has been through here, eloping with another woman. I knew he was foul, and yet-! The foolish met their own punishments…”

“Do remember that humans think all mer look the same to them-”

“You’ve always been strict; don’t begin a cruel streak by giving me hope,” you say shortly, “He gave his name.”

After reflecting on your pain for a long while, Ondolemar breaks the silence: “Miss?”

“Yes sir?”

“I forbid you to cry over such a trivial man. He was far too young and immature to tend to someone as vivid as you.”

“Fevkyn is thirty-five.”

“Exactly. Barely an adult, and too stupid to understand that he will have to live with every idiotic decision he makes for a very, very long time.”

“You’re most kind, sir, but-”

“I’ve allowed you to contradict me enough for one day. Now if you insist on staying with the cart, I might as well further your edification. Retrieve a bottle of the Black-Briar mead at once.”

After you do so, he begins a lecture of labels and corks, hairline cracks and imperfectly blown glass, flavor profiles and notes until he no longer sees tears in the corner of your eyes. The winter sun is sinking low, so he dismisses you to bed, preferring to stay with the cart to put away the bottle and sort out his tangled, amorous thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	9. Runil's Past

Gentle sun rays prod Ondolemar awake, but he clings to his dreams. Just a few more moments embracing his beautiful bride by the purple river heavily laden with flowers and driftwood.

“Sir?” you say softly.

“No more of that…” he murmurs, “Call me Ondolemar, my love.”

“Sir? Sir?” you say, as he mumbles something incoherent. When you finally get him awake, he bolts upright. “Good tam, sir.”

“What time is it?” he says as he throws off the covers and leaps out of bed.

“Two hours after sunrise.”

“Two hours after sunrise?! Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

“My apologies sir. I assumed you were feeling unwell and needed the rest,” you say as your pour him a cup of tea.

“Must have been the swill they serve at the pub,” he groans as he takes the drink from you. “I suppose I’m not forty anymore…”

“You have not missed anything,” you say as you remake the bed. “None of the shops have opened, and the fires have barely begun to warm the longhouse. I went out to the stables and checked on the horses, which are of course unaffected by the snow.”

“Snow?”

“Yes sir. It snowed last night. The locals think most of it will melt by the day’s end, but there’s an inch or so laying on the ground.”

“Wonderful, just wonderful. How I look forward to leaving behind the wretched weather of Skyrim. Did you at least take the time to black my boots this morning?”

“Yes sir, and brushed your clothes, and shined all the silver on your jacket and belt,” you say.

“Then be gone.”

You curtsy and depart promptly, leaving him to dress. After mixing up new blacking for tomorrow, and returning after master leaves to tidy his room, you have no more chores for the day. You contemplate doing nothing with your day, just for the novelty of it, but you also want to visit the general store and see if they have any books worth reading.

You’ve barely entered Gray Pine Goods before Bolund is carping, “Welcome, welcome! The bootlicker’s bootlicker!”

“Brother, please,” Solaf says quietly, “She can’t help her situation.”

“Hah!”

“Please ignore him,” Solaf says, rubbing his head. “Feel free to browse as much as you like, as long as you keep your hands to yourself.”

“I was wondering if you had any books.”

“A few,” he answers, reaching under the counter to produce three. “I also have this spell tome. Not many people around here are very keen on magic, so I’d be grateful to get it off my hands.”

“What kind of magic?” you ask.

“Honestly, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but Runil says it’s healing magic.”

“Would you mind if I took a peak?”

“Not at all.”

You open to a random page and note the many esoteric diagrams of the body, a few Aldmeri words you don’t recognize, and a few you do: energy, self, heal.

“How do you feel about the price?” you say as you gently close the book.

“I was thinking ten coin.”

“I could only give you five,” you answer, hoping to save some for the rest of the trip.

“How about eight?”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Six and it’s yours.”

You think it over for a moment, and then agree.

“Wonderful. I’m sick of looking at it,” he says jokingly.

“Hopefully I can put it to good use,” you reply with a bright smile, though Bolund scoffs.

“I hope the book serves you well.”

“Thank you sir,” you say politely. “I hope the rest of your day goes well.”

“Thank you, and return any time, regardless of what my brother may say,” he calls out before you step out into the cold again.

“Maid, what do you have there?” Ondolemar asks, startling you who had hardly expected to meet him on his daily errands.

“Oh! I just bought this!” you say excitedly. “It’s a book on the school of restoration.”

“The ‘schools’ of magic are artificial constructs created by man to allow them to wrap their minds around the concept,” he snaps before blustering passed.

Truthfully, he is delighted that you’re studying magic on your own; surely without him this interest would have never bloomed and yet… yet… Yet what? Why did your smile just now fill him with a sense of dread? How it is possible that the affection that had once given him such levity in that damp Dwemer city has now feels like lead in his heart?

A good interrogation is exactly what he needs to clear his mind. A little lightning, a few well-placed insults, a detailed report, would keep him occupied. If his initial target died too quickly (unlikely in his skilled hands), he could always go for that man in the general store that was rude to you, which would be therapeutic on many levels.

He cracks his knuckles as he strides to the opposite side of town, preparing his opening as he went. Some interrogators like to start strong by kicking in the door, striking fear in the target where they feel most safe. Sometimes that simply frightened them to pieces, so Ondolemar generally prefers to start with an innocuous knock, especially when the interogatee’s home is also a shrine.

“Master?” you say when you open the door.

“What are you doing here?!”

“I agreed to help Runil clean up the place,” you say, welcoming Ondolemar in. “Let me wash up and I’ll put some tea on for you.”

“No need,” Ondolemar states, already formulating a new plan, “I and Runil are going for a walk.”

There is a question on your face, but you know better than to ask. Still, your doleful eyes haunt him as they walk far from the cabin, deep into the woods until even the odd lumberjack was miles from them.

Ondolemar stops in his tracks and takes a deep breath, determined not to let you interfere with his official duty. “I suppose you understand why I’ve brought you out here.”

“Yes sir,” Runil answers timidly.

“It is a sin to defect from Alinor. To defect from the Thalmor...”

“Please-”

“The last we knew of you, you spying inside of Falkreath Hold. Now, you’re a priest living under a fake name, Sorconl. Care to explain why you’re giving Talos worshipers last rites?”

“It’s a long story,” he answers meekly.

“Might as well prolong your life while you can.”

Runil takes a deep breath, and releases it slowly before speaking: “I posed as a provincial Altmeri frontiersman. I went town-to-town selling my pelts and secret messages. It was a simple job, and I made a lot of gold informing the Dominion about troop sizes, weapon placements-”

“Now look at you, standing in the snow is rags, stalling for time. Let me guess, you fell in love with one of the common folk and you couldn’t bear to rat out the heretic.”

“Almost. I met a Bosmer, a homesteader who lived in a cabin just a few miles west of where we stand. I knew Galtolin for a long time and I respected his heritage, handle of a bow, and dry wit. I wintered in his cabin one particularly harsh winter and our friendship grew into something more. I had always felt there was a person inside of me, the real me, that no one ever knew, but he saw straight through all my… crap, for lack of a better word. Galtolin was too clever to fall for it; he saw that most secret person that I barely knew myself and he _loved_ that person.”

“So you left the ranks for love,” Ondolemar says with an eye roll.

“Not... exactly. One day I spotted someone spying on me. I grabbed the man before he could get away and dragged him to Galtolin’s barn for a very long interrogation session. I got all the information I could have ever wanted from the counter-spy before he died, but to my horror, Galtolin witnessed the whole thing. We got into an argument and he screamed at me to get off of his property. In the heat of the moment I told him to fuck off and stormed off.

“A week later, I went back and. He left. There was a note nailed to the door that said ‘if you ever loved me, don’t look for me.’ I was too ashamed of myself to even eat, much less carry out my duties as a Thalmor agent. I moped around the cabin for months hardly getting up most days. I think almost a year passed before I was forced to go to Falkreath for supplies.

“Pytus, the old care-taker at the shrine, took pity on me. He took me in and taught me all the ways of Arkay that salvaged my soul. I, in turn, taught him our customs.”

A long pause permeates before Ondolemar says, “So you defected because Skyrim was ignorant of our death rituals.”

Knowing that one only contradicts their superior for very good reason, he answers: “Yes sir.”

Ondolemar’s shoulders release. “Do you still have this note? I should examine all the evidence myself before my final decision.”

“Yes sir, I promise you.”

“Why?” he asks, accusingly at first, but then his voice softens, “Why would you keep it?”

“Because it’s the last thing he ever gave me. Believe me, sir, I tried to burn it several times.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be free of the regret?”

“I think… in my mind, I feel like if I get rid of the regret, I get rid of him.”

Ondolemar hum in dissatisfaction as he slowly closes his eyes. For a moment, Runil thinks the justiciar might cry, but instead he sighs very deeply and opens his eyes once more, having neatly boxed his emotions away.

“Runil, you were once a master of conjuration,” Ondolemar begins, motioning for the priest to begin following him back.

“Yes sir. I would sit in tree while my dremora lord did the actual hunting.”

“You are undoubtedly familiar with bound weapons, then.”

“Lesser beings bound by the masters to take static forms? Of course.”

“Do their masters ever bind them into shapes other than swords, shields, and other weapons?”

“It’s more common for them to be bound into non-weapons than weapons. Shoes, drapes, rugs.”

“What about something… cute? A rabbit, perhaps.”

“Yes! I used to summon one for Galtolin all the time.”

“Do you still know that creatures name?”

“I still have the original scroll, but be warned, Kill-Gore was bound by Mehrunes Dagon himself. If Dagon unbound him in the interim, Kill-Gore could easily overpower the most advanced conjurer.”

“Then perhaps we should try it now. I can create a binding circle to reinforce your power. If there is any trouble, we will banish the thing and burn the scrolls when we return.”

“Yes sir. How do you suppose we go about this?”

They debate the logistics for a minute or two, and quickly come to agreement. Runil speaks those words that once delighted his lover while Ondolemar enforces a binding ward from the ground to high in the air. There is a loud crack as reality shifts to allow the thing in and a purple haze fill the circle. Both men hold their breath, searching their minds and vision for any signs of foul play. For a moment, Ondolemar thinks the creature has escaped his circle, only to realize Kill-Gore is asmall, ethereal rabbit hopping about the clearing.

“Fear me!” it says in the tiniest, cutest voice, “I am Kill-Gore! Destroyer of souls! Ursuper of Mehrunes Dagon!”

“She would love you,” Ondolemar murmurs as he kneels down. Remembering Runil is there, he adds, “My fiancee, of course.”

“You’re engaged?”

“Yes, to Lady Aenydi Fy’drasra,” he says as he scritches the rabbit behind the ears.

“Noooo! No petting! I am Kill-Gore!” the rabbit yells, though it’s mouth it so small an infant’s finger could not get inside.

“That’s a very good family,” Runil notes, “They’re in charge of the Royal Archive, the back-up library outside of the capital.”

“Yes. The match is most advantageous,” Ondolemar answers as he stands again. “It will be a happy marriage.”

There is a half-moment where they both silently acknowledge that’s a dream and not a promise.

“Well, congratulations,” Runil says. “I wish you a thousand years of happiness and children. Consider the scroll my wedding gift.”

Ondolemar frowns, but does not say anything else, not even when you answer the door.

Oblivious to the nature of their walk, you usher the pair in cheerfully, taking Ondolemar’s jacket and hanging it by the fire to dry. You brush off the hearth a few times with your hand to make sure it was clean enough for him to sit on before offering him the place. Without asking, you put a blanket around his shoulders, and his blush grows disproportionately dark in his cheeks from all this tender care.

Runil sighs becayse you see nothing, no, the signs are much subtler in a mer than a man.However, having grown up in Summerset, he can plainly see Ondolemar is absolutely smitten, subtly leaning towards you when you hand him a cup of tea, his eyes lingering more than is polite, his hands clinging to the blanket.

But perhaps Ondolemar is just as dense on the matter. As you walk by, you tug on his blanket to make sure it doesn’t slip off his shoulders. Every time an ash lands in his hair, you pluck it away deftly. Most telling of all, you pick up a book from the table when conversation doesn’t spark, and you read it to him as if you are quite used to reading stories to him when his mind is full of concern. Yes, a maid should tend to her master’s needs but there is a particular level of care he has not witnessed in the longhouse or on the isles.

When you finish the tome, you replace it on the shelf and put more tea on to brew. “Sir, I have a question for you.”

“And I, one for you.”

“Oh?”

“Why do you insist on working on your day off?”

“One must keep her mind occupied,” you say with a smile too subtle for Ondolemar to notice.

“What is your question?” he asks.

“I bought this book today,” you say, scooping up the text from the table and bringing it to Ondolemar still sitting on the hearth. “What is this word here?”

“Transfer, although the connotation is transfer with some loss. You may _ghit’il_ a package from one cart to another but the heat that transfers from your hand to mine would be ghet-” Wait. Why did he pick _that_ example?! He jumps to his feet, suddenly babbling, “Well you get the idea Runil this has been wonderful but I really must be going thank you for the tea and good-bye!”

He left so suddenly you didn’t even have time to help him into his coat! You scramble to gather his things as well as your own, apologizing all the while, “I’m very sorry, Runil, I don’t know what got into him.”

“Ah I wouldn’t worry. He probably doesn’t know himself,” the priest replies. “I promised him a gift. Would you deliver it to him?”

Of course you agree, but it takes a moment for Runil to find it and he makes you promise him three times that you won’t look at it yourself. By the time you catch up with Ondolemar, he’s already in his room in the longhouse, with the door barred shut.

“Sir? Sir, I have your coat and gloves, and a scroll from the priest,” you call out.

He opens the door a crack before relenting and letting you in.You put the items on the low dresser, but he says nothing, simply watching you.

“Sir? Are you alright? Did you catch a chill?” you ask, quickly closing the distance between you two and putting a hand on his forehead. “Oh my! You feel quite hot!”

“I just need rest,” he mutters.

“Shall I check on you later?”

“No!” he shouts then corrects his tone, “I mean, no thank you. I mean- No.”

“Okay sir,” you reply kindly.

“Maid.”

“Yes sir?”

“Be careful with that magic. Transferring your own energy into someone else is the most rudimentary of restoration techniques. It can result in your death if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll be careful, sir, I promise,” you say with a smile that has him feel light a leaden all at once. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, miss,” he answers, collapsing on his bed when you finally shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Oh Ondolemar, please learn from your fellow mer's mistakes!


	10. The Pale Pass

By the time the party arrives at the Pale Pass deep in the Jerral Mountains, each person is covered in mud and drenched in sweat. They and the horses sank in the deep mud made by melting snow, making the trek tiring and perilous. When the wagon wheels stuck, it was up to the group to quickly push the carts out before the horses panicked.

Up on the flat rock, the soldiers take charge of stabling the horses, not patient enough to wait for you. You follow them to the cave on the right, furnished with only troughs, a fences, and hay, while Ondolemar walks to the cave on the left, trying to brush off the dried dirt clods from his clothing as he moves.

“Priest!” Ondolemar calls out, stopping his preening before stepping into the shrine, “Priest? Priest, we wish to speak with you.”

“You are,” a clearly annoyed male replies.

Stunned by the utter disregard for first impressions, Ondolemar takes a moment to wait for the punchline. When none comes, he asks tentatively. “Good priest, my name is Ondolemar. May I have your name?”

“Balak.”

The fire inside is low and Ondolemar can’t make out any features of the man working at the alchemy table so intricately carved into the opposite left wall. He sees the long, mean robes, but nothing else about the man’s affect strikes him as holy. After waiting a minute for the man to pause his potion mixing, Ondolemar calls out, “May I see you, good priest of Kyne?”

“Here we go,” Balak says with a sigh as he puts down the pestle.

“Excuse me?”

“Well met, traveler,” Balak says somewhat facetiously as he limps into the light.

As the orc's shape is reveal, Ondolemar sputters, “What is the meaning of this?”

Annoyed but not surprise, the teenager sighs again and states plainly, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that.”

“Where is the real priest?! What did you do to him?”

Balak rolls his eyes and gives a disaffected reply: “Oh, right, because of course, me, the orc, killed the priest and stole his robes, which happened to fit me. Then, I stayed here and maintained the shrine while, for the last four days, I’ve had hardly enough firewood to melt snow for cooking, just for fun of it. You got me. What’re we going to do now?”

Rather than admit how preposterous his initial assertion was, Ondolemar changes the subject: “You’re quite young to be a priest on your own.”

“You’re not wrong. Uncle Yegoth used to be in charge but left a week ago to get some rabbit.”

“The priest is dead?” Arquen says, only now joining the conversation. You and Sirilowne are close behind her, just as curious. “How’d he die?”

“I went out to our little hunting patch the morning after he didn’t come back for dinner. I hadn’t even searched an acre before starved wolves attacked me. They don’t turn tail this time of year so it was a brutal battle,” he says, pulling up his sleeve a bit to expose the still-healing flesh. “I crawled back here, thinking I would die here, but _luckily_ I lived long enough to make your acquaintance.”

“You can hardly walk!” Sirilowne remarks.

“Your point?” he snaps.

“Excuse yourself, boy,” Ondolemar snaps. “You’re not the only one who has lost a family member.”

“Do you hear yourself?” he snapsw

“Perhaps,” Arquen says, trying to balance the tensions, “you should return to your stronghold, for healing and care-taking.”

Balak laughs, “You elves are so clueless. Look at me! I am far too old to be with my mother. Besides, I would never turn my back on Kyne. She never abandoned me and I will never abandon Her. But you’re right. I should just forget about the only family member that would have me so I can better serve you, right?”

“Oh, hun, I understand...” you say, softly stepping out front. “When I was very young, there was not enough food on the farm and my mother sent me to live with my aunt. Our master was very strict and we could not talk at all. Only Mara could comfort me when I could not sleep.”

Eyes suddenly full of pity and affection, Balak replies, “Kyne showed me the way here when I left the stronghold.”

“Isn’t it wonderful what The Divines do for us?”

“If only They could bring him back,” he says with a stiff smile. You cross the room and wrap Balak in a hug that relieves so much of the hurt inside of you.

Ondolemar watches Balak’s expression melt into nervous joy, and he nearly bursts into a jealous rage. Arquen interjects to bring the embrace to an end: “We need to wait a few days for the ground to dry or freeze before we can go on anyways. While we wait, Sirilowne and I can search for your uncle’s body.”

“Excuse me?” Sirilowne asks in Aldmeris.

Arquen snaps “If I don’t get into the afterlife because some Nord god is mad at me for not helping Her priest, I _will_ haunt you. And if you die first I will drag your soul into Coldharbour!”

After briefly contemplating the threat, Sirilowne returns to Tamriellic and Balak: “If we can take some dinner, we can start our pursuit sooner.”

Agitated at his meager control of the situation, Ondolemar snaps his fingers and barks, “Maid, make some dinner at once.”

“She _has_ a name!” Balak snaps, then turning to you, asks more kindly, “What do they call you?” When you answer, he reacts a bit dramatically, almost swooning as he says, “Such a beautiful name…”

“Thank you, sir,” you say with a polite nod, “I will get some wood from the cart to feed the fire.”

“Why can’t he?” Balak says, gesturing at Ondolemar. “Or is it true that elves are made of glass?”

“Please,” you say softly, biting your lip. Your trepidation only insults your master, incensing Ondolemar to stomp out of the cave and to the cart across the way. Yet again, he is treated like a criminal for merely expecting you to do work! Everyone acts as if his every intention is not to treat you most delicately, not realizing how many of a manservant’s duties that he spares you from!

Ondolemar quickly learns that stacking wood is something of an art form. After the third time his piles collapses, he decides he needs to attend to some other duties anyways. As the head of this party, he is the quartermaster, and as such must ration the supplies. As much as he hated to take Arquen’s lead, she’s right. Such a sloppy trip downhill could easily lead to a horse, or person, slipping, breaking a leg, the carts crashing down… But he only bought supplies for a few days at this location, and without a ravenous _orc_ in their company. For now, he would keep the ration steady.

When he re-enters the living area, he shouting at you, “Maid, your duty is making dinner, not stacking wood.”

“She has a name!” Balak shouts as he stumbles to his feet.

“Good priest, please!” you protest, “Names are far too intimate for a maid and her master. We are not so familiar as to call each other directly.”

“What?”

“It’s extremely inappropriate to call a maid by her name. It violates our roles, you see,” you explain. When Balak shrinks in embarrassment, you spare him Ondolemar’s chiding by asking your master, “Would you like me to prepare that for dinner, sir?”

“Yes,” he says.

Balak mutters, “You could at least say please” under his breath.

“Oh I do suppose _you_ would be the acme of civility,” Ondolemar says.

Before Balak can escalate the argument, you grab his arm, a silent to plea that he heeds after realizing he can’t refuse any meat to supplement his diet. He sits back down at his bread board and continues mixing in the flour. After his victory goes unchallenged, Ondolemar set back to stacking the wood, this time determined to do it right.

As the ga-za bread bakes, Balas’s mind wanders far from this cave. He tries to shepherd it back, begs it stay, but it always wanders back to South Cyrodiil, his home. He sits beside you, reading your book by the fire light, wondering how you can look so peaceful with all of your trouble. Even though he hates to interrupt you, he feels compelled to ask,“Do you ever miss your family?”

You close the book softly and reply,“I was very young when I left. I hardly remember my family,” which is true, but it _feels_ like a lie.

“Have you ever thought of going back?”

“Honestly… I’m not really sure where I’m from. I know the town that was closest but not the region. I didn’t really have a sense of geography at five. I hadn’t even seen a map at that point.”

“Didn’t your aunt ever talk about it?”

“My first mistress did not allow us to talk at all. She said having me there was a great favor and if I imposed that would be it; I would be out. My aunt died a year and some months after I arrived, so I never got many answers.”

“How old were you then?”

“Seven, at the time. Mistress went to Markarth to find herself a new ladymaid, and left me there. Luckily Understone Keep is always in need of good work.”

“I’m so sorry…”

His reply strikes you as odd because your story isn’t particularly unique, but an apology does feel _right_ in a way. “Thank you. I’m sorry about your situation too.”

“I’ll be alright if you give me another hug.”

Sensing that Ondolemar is about to lose his mind, Sirilowne pipes up, “Balak, you need to show us the path to the hunting area while the light is still good.”

“Of course,” he says reluctantly, getting to his feet slowly.

Balak returns just in time to turn over the ga-za, and this time he refrains from bothering you again. After ensuring no interaction between you two will distract him, Sirilowne pulls Ondolemar aside on the pretext of needing something from the supply cart.

He starts the conversation briskly, “I’m sure you understand this is a corpse retrieval at best.”

“Absolutely,” she answers, “Balak even told us he does not want us to depart on our quest until tomorrow morning, for our safety. He fears wolves may overtake us.”

They both share a haughty laugh at the absurdity before Ondolemar goes on. “I am most concerned about Arquen acquiring such a devotion for a mannish patron.”

“Most likely due to the ever-present anxiety over potentially dying so far from home. I will speak to her and get it sorted, sir.”

“See to that.”

“Yes sir.”

Dinner was an overly tense affair. Everyone kneeling around the low table ate in silence, keeping close watch of the others, the guards on the prisoner, Ondolemar on the priet, you on Ondolemar. You’re all too happy to take the plates as soon as they’re cleared and begin scrubbing so you don’t have to rejoin them.

Arquen leans back on her hands and asks“Who sleeps where, sir? There are only two guest beds and the old priest’s bed.”

“The maid can sleep in my bed,” Balak says, hastily specifying, “I will sleep in front of the fireplace. The rug is quite soft.”

“Keep your bed. I used to sleep on stone in Markarth so I’ll be fine,” you reply.

“Nonsense,” he retorts, joining your side now to help scrub his own dishes. “I’ve been sleeping in front of the fire this last few nights anyways. You take my bed. The tall one can have Uncle Yegoth’s bed and the two guards can take the guest beds.”

“You get to be chained to the wall, convict,” Arquen chides.

Unhappy that he once again had no say at all, Ondolemar makes up an order.“Maid, please check on the horses.”

“Yes sir,” you answer, carefully setting the wooden dish on the hearth to dry. You look sympathetically at an annoyed Balak before you rise, but once you turn your back you can afford not more looks. You lift the heavy hide curtain that protects the shrine from the night chill and walk across to the stable in the other cave.

The horses seem unaffected by the cold, you think anyways. It’s rather dark over here and you don’t know much about their care to begin with.Their trough is full of water and the bin is full out hay. The straw on the ground seems fairly crunchy, but you’re not sure if it’s thick enough for them or not.

“I have coals for the horses,” Balak calls out from the other side of the pass.

“Coals for the horses?”

“For under their trough. So it doesn’t freeze,” he says as he hurries over. One hand is holding the iron bucket away from him, the other has a lantern. You step aside so he can put down the hot coals. He hands you the lamp and then explains, “They can take the chill, but not frozen water. You get back in the warmth, and don’t come out here again without a light. I need to tidy up the stable a bit.”

It’s very late to be doing such a thing, but you suspect he simply wants time to himself. When you return to the living area,the soldiers are examining their weapons, and Ondolemar is sitting on Yegoth’s bed cross-legged, apparently in deep meditation. You pause by his bedside, but he doesn’t not even a twitch of the eyebrow. You clean off his coat and shine his boots as usual, finishing your duties for the day.

After carefully laying your apron on the footboard and taking off your boots,you bury yourself in the layers of warm pelts on Balak’s bed. After relishing the softness, you finish your magical tome and then write in your journal for quite some time before Balak returns. He says nothing to you, curling up in front of the fireplace much like a small child would.Maybe you’ll ask him about it tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep.

Ondolemar hones his spell late into the night. If he can outstretch his energy to follow the crag until it spills into the grove, he can search for life forces, both friend and foe. Theoretically, he should be able to replicate the technique he used in Nchuand-Zel to seek out the Falmer, and more efficiently to boot since he only needs to extend a presence and not lethal energy. Theoretically, at least.

Spells that detect life are best used as a sweeping radius. He’s managed to tweak the spell into a triangle instead of a circle, which is twice as efficient, and still not as far reaching as spastic chain lightning. The edges of his magical work are hazy, but it feels like something has been just out of his reach for the last hour. Unfortunately,his stretching makes it impossible to tell if he’s left the crag at all, much less what kind of energy lurks beyond his scope. Ondolemar strains and stretched until fatigue numbs his spine and he’s forced to resign. He couldn’t make out anything distinct, and at this point he only risking straining himself.

You awake in the morning after Ondolemar and long after Sirilowne and Arquen have departed. Your master is bed bound with a headache, you think out of worry for Sirlowne and Arquen, but you know better than to ask. You make him tea and comment on the sunshine before leaving him to his peace, praying to every divine, even Talos, that Liithric, Balak, and Ondolemar keep quiet and to themselves.

Lunch is served late, as the pair had promised to be back by two. Balak tries making conversation, but your master is uninterested and all subjects are quickly dropped. The uneasy silence only grows as the sun dips west. The closer it gets to the horizon, the more Ondolemar contemplates the ensuring rescue mission. How could he leave alone with a convict and an orc? Furthermore, how much effective would he be on his own if some force felled both of his Altmer warriors? Even if he released Liithric from the sundering, it would be days before his physical and magical strength would be anything useful.

It’s only when Balak is scooping hot coals into his bucket that Ondolemar hears the faintest noise and barks, “Quit that noise at once!”

Balak, more dazed than compliant, pauses, and then he hears it too.

“Sirilowne?” Ondolemar calls out, putting on his gloves as he makes his way to the hide curtain. Stepping out into the cold he yells out, “Sirilowne? Is that you?”

“Aye!” she yells back, sounding like she is under great strain. “We got him! His breathing and heavier than iron ingots!”

Balak rushes out. “Is he hurt?”

A few moments pass where she tries to catch her breath enough to explain but all she can manage is, “Obviously!”

Balak dashes back inside, where you have already started a kettle. He begins hurriedly clearing the dining room table, laying coarse cloth down for whatever surgery was about to take place.Two more tense minutes pass before Ondolemar parts the curtain and the soldiers waddle in with their heavy load.

They drop the massive orc on the table, an older man tall as Ondolemar and thrice the weight. Arquen pants as she says, “It was no wolf. He was hacked by a sword, a big one… a sharp one.”

Ondolemar snaps his fingers at Balak. “You, get a tincture for cleansing wounds. Maid, your life length is similar to his and therefore your magic will be most effective. His wounds are clotted but his vitality is weak. A bit of yours will see him through.”

“Yes sir,” you say, hurriedly rolling up your sleeves.

“You must be careful,” Ondolemar warns as you slip your small fingers onto Yegoth’s collarbone. “Promise me!”

Your own painful memories suddenly overwhelm every bit of sense you have, and you refuse to agree. There was no funeral for Aunty, no comfort for you… Years as a young girl, longing for someone to hold you tenderly... The pain, the anger, the emptiness, you wouldn’t let anyone else go through it! You’re so focused on protecting Balak from the same misery that you don’t see the color filling Yegoth’s cheeks. All you know is his breathing is so weak and you have so, so much energy compared to him.

Ondolemar shouts, “Enough!” as he yanks the back of your dress.

You turn to say “Yes sir” but the room spins into blackness. Ondolemar catches your head before you fall and gently lays you down onto the stone. Your forehead is worryingly cold and you’re ten shades paler than you should ever be. He pushes your eyelids up to check your pupils and you groan softly.

“She’ll be fine,” he announces. You’re okay. You’re okay. He says it in his mind over and over, but his heart finds no calm in it.

“Is he going to be okay?” Balak asks, nervously watching his uncle.

“As long as he can rouse to take some food, he will be fine,” Sirilowne answers, that conversation seemingly miles away to Ondolemar. He gently lifts you from the floor, tenderly carrying you to the bed to rest properly. You’re lighter than you should be and it makes his legs shake in fear as he delicately lays you into bed.

“These are sword strokes for sure. Any idea who did this?” Balak asks.

“We didn’t see anyone out there,” Sirilowne adds. “Footprints, yes, but we didn’t investigate when we realized he was breathing.”

“We did manage to bring back his bow, or I assume it’s his, anyways,” Arquen says, finally unlooping it from around her chest. “No arrows though.”

Ondolemar carefully pulls off your boots and places them on the ground.Your apron is full of too many delicate things to leave on while you sleep. Like most maids, you cross strings cross in the back and tie them in the front, so he can easily undo the bow. Under some other circumstance, he might blush or shy at the idea of undressing you, but now it feels like a sacred duty more than anything.

He carefully lays it on the footboard, just as you had done the night previous, and then tucks you into bed. A warm shrine is the best place to recover from such a _foolish_ thing. He should have never let such a novice-

“Ondolemar,” Sirilowne calls out, her voice soft and understanding, “Sir, take a look at this.”

Quickly blinking away his worry, Ondolemar rises from your bedside and returns to the table where Yegoth lay. Balak points to the wound near the ribs, dried, but open. On closer inspection, Ondolemar notices shimmering black flecks, not dissimilar to void salts.

“I think the attacker wasn’t of this plane,” Sirilowne says quietly.

“A prince?” Balak asks.

“He would be dead if a prince so willed it,” Ondolemar states. “I suspect a dremora… perhaps a lord. Certainly not the weakest of their kind, but not always clever enough to understand mortal vitality.”

“Do you think this could be someone from your clan seeking vengeance on him for abandoning their ways?” Arquen asks.

Balak shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Our chief condemns Conjuration. Someone else doing your fighting is seen as rather-” his father would say elven, but Balak substitutes: “dishonorable. Like cheating. Besides, we’re from Southern Cyrodiil”

“I think it’s unlikely the dremora is still in the area,” Sirilowne says.

“What you think is irrelevant,” Ondolemar states firmly. “We will search the grove and ensure this shrine is not in danger. It is the Thalmor’s duty to rid Tamriel of all agents of Oblivion.”

“Yes sir.”

“May I suggest we rest and formulate a formal plan in the morning?” Arquen says, mindful of Ondolemar’s scattered emotions.

Hereplies stiffly, “Indeed you may suggest it. I will keep thefirst watch and ensure that thing did not follow you back here.”

The group solemnly, departs, the soldiers taking rest, Balak preparing food for when his uncle awoke, and Liithric struggling to find a comfortable position to sleep in. Ages pass before everyone is at rest, and only then does Ondolemar return to your bedside. He hand planned to act with dignity, but he traces the shape of your face with his finger and then collapses into a heap of worry and tears, begging Auriel to replenish the most beautiful creature to ever oppose Him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I did a big cry at this one. I 100% assure you that MC is okay. Just went a little too hard!
> 
> In case you're not super into the lore, the tl;dr is Auriel is an elven god. He took some souls and made elves. His enemy, Lorkhan, took some other souls and made men. Then they went to war with each other, Auriel v Lorkhan, mer v men, hence "the most beautiful creature to ever oppose Him" and Ondolemar's intense inner conflict about being in love with a WOMAN. (That is not the only creation myth out there, but it is the Altmer one)
> 
> This fic is 90% Ondolemar love, and 10% using characters that DM wouldn't let me use in D&D sessions. I think an elf wizard or an orc barbarian is cool and all, but in a way an elven swordswoman and an orc priest are much more interesting. Very rarely do people irl fit neatly into their archetypes/stereotypes.


	11. More Than That

It isn’t until three hours go by that Balak speaks again, “I mean, my offer still stands.”

Ondolemar steps over a not-yet-melted snow pile, remarking, “I suppose you assume that because I am an elf, I want to use the bow.”

Balak surveys the clearing again. They’re nearly to the far wall and the walk back would be just as long. “I assume you’re better because you’re much older, that’s all.”

“Age? Really? I recall you began your inquiry ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’,” Ondolemar quips, striding onward. His guards had been useless in finding the dremora lord, so it was up to him to finish the job.

“You don’t find it a little funny? You’ve got the mace; I’ve got the bow!” Ondolemar does not reply, so Balak adds, “Will you at least listen to my directions? I live here you know. I drew a whole map for Sirilowne and Arquen to use yesterday.”

“I _doubt_ they used it,” he says.

“…Okay, then, what’s the method here?” Balak says, “We’ve missed a score of good ambush spots. Hey slow down! Can you hear my up there? I can barely keep up with you walking that fast.”

“The method-”

“For Kyne’s sake slow down!”

“-is to go to the dremora lord directly, of course.”

“Slow-”

Ondolemar stops suddenly, and Balak does too, sensing the shift in the air. Balak ducks behind a rock and waits as Ondolemar tip-toes to a stout rock. Here, at the edge of the clearing, the ground is rocky and strewn with boulders big enough for an Altmer to hide behind.

Balak hears its footsteps first and dares not to pull the string on his bow, not even knock the arrow held loosely between his fingers. Ondolemar is much closer, and therefore Balak should let him set the pace for this battle. Should. Balak wonders how much combat training this guy could have if he can’t shoot a bow. Yet, he cannot deny he needs Ondolemar in this fight.

“I smell weakness…” it growls slowly as it moves closer. Ondolemar slowly assesses its strength, its origin… Mephala’s realm, The Spiral Skein, and the caster, a master that hardly needs to concentrate for her creature to do her bidding. Probably a boon from her dark deal with the Prince of Lies. The key is a straight-forward banishing,the most basic of techniques in his training as a justiciar. Though tricky to learn, they were simple, and this will be over soon.Ondolemar steps into the open, startling the dremora before he banishes it back to Oblivion.

The caster will be coming very soon to investigate, so Ondolemar runs forward and hides behind another boulder. Neither see where the woman comes from, but she begins heaving ice spikes that bury themselves into the rock, so no one risks investigating. Ondolemar decides to stay in place, only act if he can ambush her or is cornered.

The plan comforted him greatly until reality shifts yet again and a furious dremora lord appears before him. Ondolemar dodges the first blow, but he rolls into the open where the caster can see him. His ice wards are fantastic, but her spells still bury through and sting him. He fights through the pain as he tries to flee the dremora.

Seeing Ondolemar flagging, Balak pulls the string back and a barbed arrow buries itself in the dremora’s neck, between the chitin plates. He see Ondolemar immediately,change course to pursue the caster. For now Balak would empty his quiver, each arrows punching deep wounds that don’t slow it down. Blood pools on the snow, but it does not slow its steady pursuit of the orc.

Balak dashes for a five-foot boulder and leaps on top of it without letting his string slack. From up here he can see the battle of magics between the two elves and puts his sights on the caster. The arrow sail so quickly, Ondolemar didn’t initially understand what happened to her, struck through by an arrow that kept sailing.

Ondolemar could finish her now, but the dremora lord has reached Balak’s rock, and has begin hacking it away with its super sharp sword. The caster is dying, so her concentration is weaker, making up for his own magical fatigue. Or so he thought, for this time the dremora lord grasps at Ondolemar’s soul to pull it into Oblivion as a consolation prize. He gasps for air, and wrenches his mind away.

Balak jumps down and sprints to Ondolemar, suspecting he passed out from the strain of two banishings. Indeed Ondolemar is slumped on a rock, trying to work up the focus to finish off the caster. His vision is dark, but he hears that distinct crackle and smells the sulfur of Oblivion. He knows the dremora will slay the caster first, and in that moment he shakes off the confusion. He’s in no shape to cast, but his physical strength is still there.

“I cannot banish it again,” Ondolemar says to Balak. “Run! Get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Get out of here you stubborn bastard!”

“No!” Balak says, burying the first arrow into the beast’s heart. Something between the summonings healed the thing, all of its wounds, his best arrows, gone. He’s starting from scratch and he only has two arrows left.

The dremora ignores Balak even when struck a second time. It charges Ondolemar bringing down its sword which he catches with the shaft of his mace. The dremora applies pressure, but the elven glass handles refuses to be cut. No matter, it was stronger than this mortal, who fought with all his strength and yet the blade grew ever closer to it’s fragile, fragile neck.

Ondolemar stops the steady descent just inches from his neck, suddenly overcome by pure panic for his life. He is half-certain that he will die in this valley, and is filled with such regret for his life he frantically pushes back, managing to regain a half-inch of space.

Balak studies its head while he tries to search for lost arrows. He’s not surely those obsidian eyes aren’t stone, and rest is like tough leather or chitin, The heart is out too, each plate interlocking. He can really only strike the joints, but not even the neck seems to matter. He needs a killing blow, a stunning blow at least.

The dremora raises its heavy sword, intent to bring it down with so hard that no mortal could stop it. It stretches high above its head, so high the plates split and exposed its beating heart. The arrow flies out the other side and the dremora collapses to its knees. Ondolemar is immediately upon it, striking it until he was certain it was dead and then a dozen times more.

Having finally stood up and brushed himself, Ondolemar says, “Well.” mostly to himself. “You really could have done all that with the caster the first time, don’t you think?”

Balak’s mouth opens and he blinks, but apparently the Atlmer is really serious. His only choice of reply is: “What is your problem.”

“Excuse me?”

“Why is it every time you’re scared you have to be a jerk to make up for it?” Balak asks frankly. “It just highlights when you’re scared, by the way.”

“Well! I- Well! N- Name one time!”

“How about every time your maid looks at you, you get nervous, so you yell at her?”

Ondolemar’s mouth is agape for a full five seconds before he thinks of a reply: “That simply is not true.”

“Whatever you say,” Balak replies, already walking away, “I’m going to go check out the caves in the area. You stay out here. It must be hard being that unaccountable.”

“I am plenty accountable, and I am coming with you,” Ondolemar announces. The orc gives a weak wave-off, but does not protest when Ondolemar follows after collecting shattered dremora horn for your alchemy studies.

“This cave has a little stream in it, so I bet she camped here. This opening is narrower than I remember it,” Balak says, shrugging off his bow and quiver to squeeze into the entrance. Once Ondolemar got inside, he was certain this was the place, by the bed at the side of the room and enormous daedric summoning circles in the middle.

“That’s not good,” Balak states bluntly as Ondolemar paces the outer edge of the sigil. “Daedra?”

“This was definitely intended to be a shrine to Mephala.”

“Two sets of chisels... Do you think there was someone helping her?”

“The dremora. It’s likely the prince gave it to her to help carve this shrine.”

“How did they get that huge block of marble in here? I’ve been in this cave many times,; there’s no other entrance.”

“This stone is from Oblivion,” Ondolemar says, having finished the circumference at Balak’s side. “Those symbols around the edge are for summoning and that one in the middle, underneath the block, means stone.”

Curiously, that very symbol begins glowing, and for the longest moment they simply watch it with growing One strike Balak in the leg, but Ondolemar took the brunt of it.One strikes him in the back so soundly, he’s stunned blind for a few moments and he cannot feel his hands. A few moments of settling and then a few more of silence permeate before Balak dares to speak.

“Did you get hit in the head?” he asks as he shimmies out from under Ondolemar. The older man collapses onto the floor wheezing and unable to answer. Balak gives him the powdered chitin you prepared, almost as a test to see how badly he was off. At least not so badly that he couldn’t take the vial and feed himself its contents.

Balak slowly gets to his feet and realizes his hobble just got a bit worse. Not only that, the narrow cave opening has collapsed. Ondolemar is unable to stand or speak, so Balak must clear away the rubble before things go from bad to worse. He climbs the pile carefully and begins to throw rocks aside one after the other. One eye is always on Ondolemar, who’s looking paler by the moment.

Ondolemar cannot meditate through the pain, and therefore cannot heal himself though he desperately needs to. How he wishes you were here, even if you couldn’t fix him you would at least comfort him. He would fight through the suffering and will himself to stay at your side as long as possible.

The pain sharpens and dulls, each time more extreme than the last until he is certain he will never see you again. His family will hate him for dying so inauspiciously, and quickly dash him out of the family record.You, you will weep. You’re too pure not to, even if he has been horrible to you you’ll sob and put flowers on his pyre.

That was too sad of a thought to die with. Ondolemar curls up next to thought of your fingers combing through his hair, tidying him for bed as your voice asks him one of your more complicated questions.He remembers not two weeks in his service, you accidentally brushed his ear with your hand and neither one of you could look at the other for the rest ofthe week.

Once he complained that he hated the stupid collar on his uniform and you told him it made him look sharp. When he asked you to clarify the slang term, you ended up rambling about his looks so long his toes curled in his books at the excitement. You finally admitted you thought him handsome. He nestles into that memory playing it on repeat, deeply sighing each time until it occurs to him that he should be too injured to breathe so well.

The ache suddenly swells and he lays his cheek on the cool floor again. He needs a more potent memory. You were so nervous that incident seemed like a servant flattering her master, and he did tend to disregard it. The things you did unprompted, for no discernible reason, were far more special in his heart.

Before you were even his servant, he remembers you would always smile at him. No one in Markarth ever smiled at him. It felt like sunshine after a week of rain and he found himself making every excuse to cross his path. When his last valet quit, Ondolemar has planned to harass Faleen into making you his servant. He entered her apartment, and there you were. You politely introduced yourself and asked _him_ if you could serve him. He stared at you for a full minute, expecting you to recant but you only smile warmly.

Physical evidence is even better, even if he doesn’t have it with him. Sometimes you are so busy that you leave a note on his desk, and sometimes those notes would have nice things like, “I like your new haircut”. He tucks those in his most expensive spell tomes and every time he would open to that page, lye and lavender wafts out and he feels like you’re next to him.

Ondolemar manages to get himself upright, feeding off fond memories until Balak approaches him.

“Can you walk?”

“You’ll have to help me,” Ondolemar admits, face pale with sweat.

“Alright, let’s go. I think we can squeeze through the opening I made,” he says as he helps Ondolemar up. Balak climbs the pile first, pulling up Ondolemar after. Once they’re both through the hall, Balak slings the other’s arm over his back. “Let’s try to keep moving at a slow and steady pace. Tell me if you need a break though.”

Ondolemar worries that these reminisces aren’t spells healing him, but simply motivation to keep moving. Still, if he can get to you, maybe at least… His steps grow steadier until he rushing ahead into Kyne’s shrine.

“Master!” you cry out, rushing up to him but stopping yourself from giving him a hug.

Balak ignores that and says to Uncle Yegoth, “He was struck in the back several times. I’ll explain later.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with that big boom we heard a few hours ago, didja?” Yegoth asks.

“Yes sir. Mr. Ondolemar saved my life, and now he’s in a bad way.”

“Perhaps we should have our resident healer take a look.”

Ondolemar waves his hand weakly, “I’m sure I only need rest. I do not want a repeat of two nights ago.”

“I promise I will be more careful, sir,” you tell him, struggling to keep your speaking even. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Do you even know how to detect contusions under the skin?”

“Well, what is contusion?”

“He means internal bleeding,” Yegoth says, “and it can be tricky to spot. Big, nasty bruises are a good sign, but not always there. When you put your fingers on his skin, you should be able to feel the pain.”

“S- Surely you know some healing magic, good priest,” Ondolemar says before he gulps down the potion Arquen has fetched for him.

“You would think so, being a priest and all, but I’m afraid I never had much aptitude for it,” Yegoth replies.

You move closer and Ondolemar rebukes, “My honor won’t allow it!”

Annoyed that Ondolemar is endangering his life for the sake of respectability you stomp your foot and say: “I will move you to the privacy of the stables, and that is the only compromise I will accept on the issue. As your valet it is my _duty_ to see to this matter!”

Sirilowne and Arquen practically drag him to the stables, and leave him so he cannot order them to take him back.

“I will turn around and you tell me when you’ve uncovered your back,” you announce, turning on your heel.

You’re serious, so he might as well… After removing his overcoat and pulling his head through his upper garments so just his back is exposed, he calls back. “Okay, you can look now,” he says.

You turn around and just hope he can’t hear your heart beating. Half of you is terrified at the injuries, half of you cannot help but take in how _exposed_ he is.

“You’re awfully beat up, sir,” you say, fingers tracing the purple marks on his back. You didn’t know what Yegoth meant by “feel the pain” at the time, but now you understand. It’s like you can feel his emotions in the heat radiating from him and he mostly feels… confused.Perhaps his pain is so great he cannot make sense of things. Either way, you begin your work right away.

“Be careful!” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Do not over-exert yourself again.”

“Hush now and mind staying still,” you say. That’s first time you’ve ever given him an order and luckily he obeys, allowing you to work on putting his body back in an order that uses your energy much more efficiently than the last time.

After a long pause, Ondolemar asks, “What do you think about when you heal?”

“I think about wanting to help,” you answer, circling a bruise carefully to ensure it is not still bleeding. “It’s like I want to help so much the helpfulness comes out of my fingertips.”

“You’ll drain yourself dry with an attitude like that. Are you certain you are being cautious?”

“I promise.”

“You would have drained your very soul two days ago if I had let you!”

“I’m sorry sir. I’m not used to stopping I suppose. Usually, if I’m tired and a task is not done, the tiredness does not matter.”

“You should really _try_ to take care of yourself at least.”

He can hear Balak carping him, “ _You’_ _re nervous and_ _you’re taking it out on her!”_

“I suppose if you’re back to your old energetic self, you’re fine,” you say, sounding disappointed, I still have enough power to help you later, so tell me if something begins to pain you. Oh! You do have feeling everywhere you should, right?”

“ _Everywhere and more!”_ he laments internally, “Yes, miss.”

“I read in my book that I should ask that! At the beginning, actually.” you say sheepishly.

“May I redress?”

“Oh!! Of course. My apologies sir.”

He quickly does so, and then remarks, “Let us exit this wretched, smelly place.”

“Yes sir! Good air will do you well,” you reply as you step into the moonslight.

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching into his pouch, “I just remembered. I retrieved this for you. It is the horn of a dremora lord, a very rare and potent ingredient in alchemy.”

“You fought a dremora?” you say in awe.

“We defeated it. Here, take it. I am gifting it to you for your outstanding loyalty.”

“Thank you sir!” you say taking is carefully from his hand.

“I would not sell that unless someone offered you _at least_ one hundred gold,” he explains, though the way you tenderly wrap it in an handkerchief makes him think that you might cherish it in a special type of way. He clears his dry throat and goes on, “I wish for you to observe something.”

“Yes sir?”

“Look up at the sky… All of those stars are little holes letting in magic and light,” he explains, “The Sun is the biggest star of them all. You can pull power from them and do wondrous things. It is common for a talented novice to merely draw upon the power within themselves, but a true mage gathers power from all around them, you see.”

For a long moment, you both stand there, staring at the sky, not at all thinking about magical technique. Each of your minds archives this strange intimacy, and mapping the memory on the brilliance of the night sky.

“How many stars are there, sir?” you ask in wonderment, “Oh! I’m sorry. I already asked you a question today. Please forgive me sir,”

“Maid?”

“Yes sir?” you ask softly.

“You must realize by no that you’re no mere groveling valet. You are… a companion. Moreso than just anyone who follows me at my side. A true… companion.”

“Thank you sir! That means the world to me! I really like to be around you too- er, um. Not that it my opinion really matters, sir.”

“Yes, yes, it does matter, quite a bit. Let’s get back inside, miss.”

“Yes sir!” you say with a smile so wide he tucks it into his favorite memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> This is starting to get long. I have so much planned too. We aren't even technically out of Skyrim yet :3


	12. A Story About Love

The fiasco at the shrine took entirely too long, so that by the time they departed, the base of the mountain the ground was awash in mudthanks to the spring melt. The horses were not accustomed to anything but the hard, frozen north and quickly became mirred, which required dispatching the maid to summon the justiciar of the this backwater for aid.

“I am in your debt, Justiciar Vistir,” Ondolemar admits before they officially enter the town.

“You should have left sooner,” she grumbles.

“We had complications at The Pale Pass.”

“Did those orcs gave you problems?”

“Not directly. A dremora lord stalked their wood, and we paused our trek to eradicate it.”

Vistir raises her eyebrows, doubling her wrinkles, before she replies incredulously, “I’d believe if I had seen it.”

“He gave me its horn!” you pipe up helpfully, holding it up to proudly defy her doubt in your master.

Vistir smirks when she asks, “You gave that to her, _Ol’ Ondolemar_?”

He surely hopes that does not mean that wretched song has made it south of the Jeralls. Just to be safe, he amends your statement: “She is holding it for me.”Luckily, you wisely put the object away and fade into the background again.

“In any case,” Visitir says, with a wave of her hand, “May I _strongly_ recommend your party boards at The Three Diamonds Boarding Home.”

Ondolemar blinks several times, “What about Giant Rock Inn?”

“It burnt down,” Vistir says, as if he should have known that, “I promise The Diamonds has empty rooms with full privacy.”

“You’re seriously suggesting that my entourage stays in the town brothel?!” Vistir looks nonplussed. “Wha- Why- Justiciars are supposed to accommodate all Thalmor on official business, Vistir!”

“And what business is that? High Justiciar of _Skyrim,_ you may note this is _Cyrodiil_ ,” she quips. Ondolemar coolly produces the letter detailing Liithric’s transfer. She glances over it quickly and thrusts it back into his hands. “Either way, I cannot house you or your party.”

“And why is that, exactly?”

“Some ‘justiciar prodigy’ you turned out to be! Do you smell the wet ash? Do you _see_ the ruined buildings that cover a third of the town? How about the homeless vagrants crowding the street- Get away from me!” she hisses, giving the poor woman a kick. “I must apologize for the state of my supervisional area. Two weeks and two days ago, a terrible windstorm and fire nearly destroyed the whole town. Why if it were not for Cearoyl and I, there would be nothing here at all. As you can imagine from the state of what remains, our arrangements were already quite cramped, much less now that a family is sleeping on our floor. There is, quite literally, no room for you or your party.”

“Then why do you not stay at the brothel?” Ondolemar says, hoping against hope to pull rank.

“We are spying on the family,” she says easily in Aldmeris.

“Hm! Well, we will be staying at The Wild Hunt then.”

“Do _not_ go there,” Vistir says gravely. “You must avoid that wretched place at all costs, even reputation. It was won in a crocked card game and that is only the begin on its ignominy! And besides, the ugly whores ply there, so the place is no cleaner for your prestige.”

“It is by the virtue not being an outright brothel!”

“Virtue? Ha! Fine, dig your grave. Just know I don’t care to hear you complain in the morn when your pockets are empty and you smell of piss.”

“Well!”

There is a long pause in which each hopes the other will apologize. Vistir is the first to drop her hopes and get down to business: “At least lock the carts and horses in my care so that I may sleep well knowing all of The Thalmor’s most important documents won’t be stolen.”

“That is quite alright. Inns have disgusting stables anyways.”

“Please, High Justiciar, consider my thoughts on the matter earnestly. I do live here, after all.”

“Considering a whorehouse for even a moment! Ha!”

Since you had to carry everything, Ondolemar insists that each person only bring along a few possessions. It seems that you more or less much carry everyone’s journal and quills, plus a few things the guards will use to polish their armor. He hates to strain his darling for even a moment, and thus walks ahead of the group so that he may have the room fee negotiated by the time you arrive.

Mux, the owner, does not make that easy at all. He smiles widely despite his missing teeth when he goes over the bill once more: “Ten a piece per night, and that’s that.”

“Ten gold per night, _per person_?! But we only require two rooms!”

“This includes dinner and all drinks, sir. We brew our own spiced wine, and I must say it is phenomenal. Please, take a glass on the house while you think over your options.”

Of course the glass in a bit smaller than the standard size, but Ondolemar takes it from the Bosmer all the same. He gives it a respectful look over, regarding its color and smell as his party begins filing into the tavern portion of the inn. Perhaps you will learn something from his appraisal and spend the rest of the evening asking him everything there is to know about wine.

After taking a sip (which is practically half the glass), Ondolemar comments, “That _is_ phenomenal. However, the convict is not to have any alcohol, and the price should be reflect that.”

“I agree one hundred percent sir. Fifty then?” Mux says, holding out his hand.

“Fifty!?” Ondolemar says, and when Mux doesn’t budge he expounds: “You said ten each and by five that makes fifty. Then you agreed to a discount for one, ergo the final price should be _below_ fifty.”

“Ah!” he says, dramatically putting his hand on his forehead, “Of course, you wouldn’t know about the tax.”

“The tax,” he repeats, unamused.

“But of course! You see, you came from Skyrim. In fact, you are the High Justiciar of Skyrim. Ergo, I can apply the two-gold inter-provincial tax to your total.”

“What? That is not the law, and it would not apply to The Thalmor if it were. And you were only going to discount me two coins?”

“Please sir,” Mux begs, “We’re only trying to rebuild our orphanages after that horrible fire, sir. Surely a man with such a high standing can afford to help us poor, unfortunate folks. Please, we really need the business… And it isn’t like there is another inn to stay at. How about it, sir?”

“Fine,” Ondolemar grumbles, finally shaking Mux’s outstretch hand.

Before he’s even let go, Mux adds, “Upfront.”

“Of course.”

Once most of the coin is on the table, Mux hands the keys to you, whose hands are already quite full. As always, you manage to juggle all the things between your hips and you off-hand to take them with grace. Ondolemar wonders how much you could hold if he really put you to it, but such an experiment seems too cruel to carry out.

“You seem lost in thought,” Mux comments, “Sit down, get your bearings, stay awhile.”

“Is there anything to eat at this hour?” Ondolemar asks as he tentatively takes a “high” chair at the bar that was clearly built with stout Bosmer in mind.

“I’ll have my wife whip you up something right now! It’s three for the meal.”

Ondolemar finishes his drink before protesting: “You said dinner was free and it is evening.”

“Oh… sorry.. _t_ _echnically_ dinner is at eight,” Mux says as he pours Ondolemar a new glass. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking: ‘This place is half-empty! How can he have such strict rules?’ but just you wait! People’ll start pouring in- Oh, look there’s Miesta now! Good evening Miesta! How was fruit selling today?”

Miesta walks right by, pointedly ignoring him on the way to the stairs to the accomodations.

“It’s been rough since the fire,” Mux whispers.

“I’m sure,” Ondolemar says sternly before sipping his wine.

“Let me tell me my wife about your soup.”

“Soup! _Three_ gold for soup!”

“It’s very good soup.”

“It better be...” he grumbles, with little more than this watery wine to console him.

When the guards descend the stairs, they are clever enough not to make eye contact and hide themselves away at a side table to chat with each other. He should question them about how they secured Liithric or fed him, but he honestly hopes the bastard dies before his arraignment.

The moment his empty glass hits the bar, Mux appears in a flash. He seems to have a tremor of sorts, so he pulls the glass down onto a counter his height so that he may steady himself as he pours the jug. Just as he places the glass on the bar again, you rush over out of nowhere, calling out, “Wait!” as you clumsily knock over the cup.

Normally such a mistake would earn quite the lecture, but Ondolemar is determined to be gentle with you from now on, and says, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to do that!”

“I meant to do it! I did!” you blurt out.

“Oh hush,” he replies playfully. “I know that is what I would say in the past but I know you better than that! Sit down a moment. You never rest and that’s why you make mistakes.”

When he lifts his glass, once again full with wine, you plead, “Please sir.”

Ondolemar hesitates, and Mux adds, “It is free. Try some missie.”

“No thank you,” you say very quickly. Ondolemar finally relents, supposing his should wait until his food has arrived to imbibe further. This finally prompts you to sit beside him, though you fidget nervously all the while.

“Do you require anything?” he asks you. Curiously you shake your head, despite a light lunch and no dinner yet. “I will pay of course.”

“My stomach feels off.”

“Perhaps you would like some tea.”

“No! I mean, no thank you, sir,” you say. You seem to share a glance with Mux before you look to the floor. The barkeep then leaves to retrieve Ondolemar’s food.

“Sir, please don’t drink anything else,” you say softly.

“Are you suggesting I’m drunk?”

“No, no I’m just worried-”

Mux returns very quickly and you quiet down.

“The wife’s specialty. Spiced Soup,” he says as he places it in front of Ondolemar.

Spiced would indicate strongly flavored, not so spicy that it burns the taste buds from his mouth! He quickly gulps down his drink, and you shrink like a wife watching her husband transform into a monster.

“This is absolutely terrible,” Ondolemar says, pushing it away.

“No refunds.”

“I know,” he retorts. Then he decides that does not mean he cannot tell Mux a thing or two about cooking, which turns into an overly long rant. The proprietor only escapes because the other patrons slowly fill his bar, and shouting across it in too unbecoming for an agent of the Thalmor.

Finally left to peace, Ondolemar says to you: “Unwell in the stomach, then? What is it?”

Despite being busy with other, Mux snorts with the assumption that because you are a young woman with an upset stomach, then surely you must be pregnant. And if you are pregnant, then surely it is withyour master’s child. Mux and the other riff-raff eavesdropping seem to think of Ondolemar as a lecherous pervert, and an idiot without the simplest knowledge of herbs or his own body. Both thing infuriate him, and he is liable to knock that man looking at your right from him chair!

You glance between your own wringing hand, the glass of wine, and himself, “Well sir, this is the first time I’ve left Skyrim-”

“Ah! You miss home!” Ondolemar finishes jovially, “Quite understandable. I was miserably sick when I first left Alinor. I know just the thing to raise your spirits. Bard!”

Despite his dignity and station, the room suddenly spun as he stood and he is only saved from dashing himself on the floor by his quick-witted maid.He’s quick to dust himself off, but you are far too devoted to your station to let the incident go without remark: “Perhaps you should retire for the evening, sir.”

That would be to admit that three thrifty glasses of weak wine did him in, and that just could not be. “Miss, I think a tune from Skyrim will cheer your spirit,” he says as he crosses the tavern. Upon arriving to the table with a lute leaned against it, Ondolemar says, “Bard, do you know any songs from Skyrim?”

The man seems annoyed that his conversation with the lithe Breton whore sitting across from him has been cut short. The bard strums his lute with malice and sings out: “We drink to our youth, and to days come and gone. For the age of oppression is now nearly done-”

“ _Not_ that one,” Ondolemar snaps.

“You got a problem with ‘The Age of Oppression’?” the bard says in total disregard that he is in the presence of the Thalmor. Even mentioning such a song is considered treason (if only Ondolemar had jurisdiction here!).

You tug on Ondolemar’s arm, and he understands this is why wives fear drunk husbands. Should a brawl break out here, you are liable to horribly frightened by the violence, or worse, hurt. He puts on a brave and pleasant smile for you and places a coin on the table. “Perhaps something that more readily lends itself to dance.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“Oh Tyronus, _please_ ,” the slim man says calmly, “You have to give the customer what he wants! One coin for one song is quite the deal, let me tell you. Guv-mer, what is your name?”

“Ondolemar,” he replies, not at all impressed the man has figured out such a simple Aldmeris phrase.

The bard is struck with inspiration, and sings in a voice that rises above the jabbering crowd: “Their loving was fleeting. Her face took a beating! That ol righteous mer-”

“Hold on!” Ondolemar shouts, lowering his voice when Tyronnus did. “That is _not_ how that song goes at all!”

“No? That’s the way I heard it,” he replies, taking this interlude to tune his instrument.

“It’s my- I mean, it goes, his pride took a beating.”

“Well how does that work?”

“What do mean ‘how does that work’?”

“All the verses are about the maid ruining his life. Spilling drinks on important people, insulting your, I mean _his_ father-in-law, you know, general idiocy because she is in love with her master.”

“Well I never!” you huff.

“That’s not it at all! All the verses are supposed to be about the elf rescuing the maiden, and then he marries someone or something else. Why else would this fictitious mer, who by mere coincidence has the same name as myself, be righteous, if he was beating women?”

“Well ain’t that what you do?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Not what my brother said.”

The Breton jumps between them and says, “Please! Gentlemen! The two of you are far too handsome to have your faces tangled in dispute, verbal or otherwise. Surely our resident bard is clever enough to design new lyrics to satisfy our new, most handsome guest… Please, Ty?”

“Anything for you, Verel,” Tyronnus sighs.

“I would be most delighted to have this dance,” Verel says to Ondolemar with a small, polite bow.

“That is quite alright.”

“C’mon!” Verel says, playfully grabbing Ondolemar’s hand.

“He said no!” you snap, slapping away the intrusion.

Ondolemar turns to you so quickly his vision does not immediately follow. You’ve never been so possessive of him, and certainly he cherishes the moment, even as you still try to persuade him to go to bed. Instead, he wraps you up in a dance, supposing it will not do to protest this song any longer, for it could be much, much worse.

“The night is young, and so are you!” he says, immediately flushing at such a trite attempt at poetry. You grant him a dance anyways, although your inexperience with the proper techniques and the patrons moving the tables closer to the dance floor causes him to crash several times.

“This is most unlike you sir!” you protest as you pick up a turned over chair.

“That’s just it! I want to be a new person!” You look so displeased with the answer, he can’t help but rebel for your attention, “Verel! Would you care to tango?”

“Oh would I!”

“That settles it!” you state with a stomp of your foot, “You are going to sleep this instant!”

“Wait! Miss! I promise I-” but just then a bout of vertigo strikes him, followed by the floor.

“I don’t care!” you say, practically dragging him to the stairs as he struggles to walk in a straight line or avoid walls. He glances back at the crowd, hooping and hollering at you, and finally concedes he is three sheets to the wind, more sauced than a sweet cake, or most plainly, drunk.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he moans as you struggle to unlock the door to his room.

“Hush now,” you murmur.

“It was only three little glasses of wine. I dinnidt think it would hit me so hard… You must hate me and you’re so nice to me and-”

“Oh now!” you say, pushing open the door. “You’re putting words in my mouth and thoughts in my head!”

You help him into the dreary room which has only a bed and a small cupboard on which his journal has been delicately placed. Ondolemar then notices the blanket on the floor pauses a long moment while you remove his mace, realizes that is where you will sleep, and bursts into tears in the span on a minute.

“Sir…” you begin, but he shakes his head and buries his face in his hands, which further unbalances him and draws up even more sobs when he stumbles. Assuming the role of damage control, you wrap your arms around his waist and haul him towards his bed. After two attempts to get him to lie down on his own accord fall on deaf ears, you decide to rearrange yourself for your next move.

“I’m so sorry!” he sobs hysterically.

“Please, sir, it’s alright.”

“Imma disgrace to my family.”

“Sir-”

“They never should’uve kept me I’m a miserable wretch of a being and I bring nothing but bedlam and misery to all that know me and my idiotic...”

Finally in position, you tackle him onto the bed and worry about the details later. One of his legs remains on the floor, but the rest of him managed to get on the bed, even if that means you are currently straddling his torso. He is suddenly silent and unmoving, so you cautiously ask, “Did you hit your head?”

Ondolemar shakes his head slowly, having not quite figured out how to breathe when his most beloved gem is positioned quite- quite- quite- He cannot even _think_ about how this looks much less how it feels. You understand none of these thoughts and begin to panic, shaking him by the shoulders, shouting, “Sir?! Sir!! Are you okay? Sir!! Oh by Mara! Sir please speak!”

Unfortunately, that only makes the blood in his body leave his brain and go straight for the stupidest place in his body. Still petrified with emotions he cannot even name, he managed a gasp that rasps so horribly, you begin patting down your apron murmuring: “Alright, alright, I can do this. I can fix this. He’s going to be okay. Okay. Blue mountain flower is the surest antidote for all manner of poisons.”

You pull out the flower from a small pocket, pluck the bud from its stem. Without warning you push it and two fingers into Ondolemar’s gaping mouth, awakening something inside himself he was not previously privy to. Chewing gave him time to think, and formulate some sort of reply to save face: “Thank you miss. I’m not sure what has come over me. I am no teetotaler but I never deign to drunkenness!”

You sigh in relief, a big smile spreading across your face. Quickly shifting into your usual self, you withdraw a handkerchief and begin dabbing his face of sweat and tears. “It’s not your fault, sir. I saw that horrible barkeep add powder to your drink. If it’s what I suspect it is, the priests at Dibella’s shrine add that much to a whole keg of wine on Heart’s Day!”

He takes your handkerchief, which smells of lye and lavender, to finish cleaning himself up.“What do you suspect it is?”

“Ah… I don’t actually know what plant it derives from, but it is called ‘Lovers Powder’. It can make ones emotions very intense and one very… Well, they use it for Heart’s Day, so you can imagine.”

At least he has something other than your warm body touching his to explain his painfully hard erection.

“You need rest,” you say, trying to shift backwards so you can dismount Ondolemar without the risk of kicking him in the head.

He fears that when you stand, you will discover his indiscretion, and he could never recover from such a humiliation.He seizes your forearms tightly to hold you in place and pleads, “I need a story to sleep, miss.”

There is a long pause in which you wait for Ondolemar to let go, but you suppose you cannot press him for much in this state. Although you worry someone could see him in this compromising position, you realize his delirium has left him quite serious.

“I only brought my book about healing magic,” you say, moving to retrieve it.

He yanks you back. “I want a fun story, please.”

“Okay,” you say before settling onto him as well as you could. You think a long moment before speaking again: “Once there was an island-”

“Was it Alinor?”

“No, but it was a tiny island between there and Valenwood.”

“How big?”

“Um…. Twenty acres,” you suppose.

“And who lived there?”

“I’m getting there,” you say chidingly. “Be patient, and please let go of me.”

“I’m scared you’ll leave.”

“Shh… I won’t leave. Not when you need me,” you say so soothingly, he trusts you enough to let go and fold his hands on his chest. “Now listen to the story and relax:

“On that island was a single cottage and in that cottage was a single woman-”

Ondolemar perks up once more. “What did she look like?”

“If you keep interrupting me, I won’t tell you the story!” you warn, “But to answer your _last_ question, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Does that give you a clear enough answer?”

He nods, completely flushed, having a crystal clear image of the heroine.

“Are you going to interrupt me again?”

He shakes his head, and you pat it approvingly.

“This woman was so beautiful it was known in all of Tamriel. Even though she only occasionally traveled to Valenwood or Summerset for supplies, people are far as Morrowind knew of her incredible beauty. Not only was she beautiful, she was an incredibly powerful mage, even though she was only human. There was no mile of land without at least one heart that coveted hers for themselves.

“One day a magnificent merchant’s ship anchored off of her tiny island. The captain was rowed to shore in a resplendent longboat by twenty Redguard men. Ten of them carried ten chests to her cottage, and the captain wore his finest clothes when he declared:

‘Oh beauteous woman of Diryl Isle, I come to ask for your hand in marriage. I am a successful merchant, with all the gold, furs, and rugs you could possibly want. My servants will wait on you hand and foot, and you will give me many children, if only you accept my offer.’

“The woman called out from inside her cottage: ‘What use have I for servants on my little isle? I make all of my clothes; I weave all my rugs. Begone now, you foul thing, or suffer the fate you most fear!’

“The captain charged at the door, but a volt of lightning threw him back so hard it took an hour before he could be roused, and by then his men had loaded him onto the ship to travel back to Hammerfell. But! The moment he awoke a great storm struck their ship. All of the loot was lost, not one plank was left intact, yet only captain died. The sailors that washed ashore told everyone they could find about the encounter, which of course, only served to inspire foolish men.”

“Of course,” Ondolemar says, rolling his eyes.

“Now, if there is one thing an orc chief loves, it is a wife with a strong spirit. It took some time for the chief to find boats, but when he did, he rowed straight out to Diryl with his twelves wives sitting idle for he thought the captain’s only fault was using other men’s strength!. Once on the shores, the chief slaughtered the largest elk on the island, and dragged it to her cottage, his many wives trailing behind with offerings of steel and incense.

“Before he could even speak, the woman shrieked, ‘You have slain my dearest friend! Begone you foul thing, or you shall wither where you stand!’

“The orc laughed uproariously and took one step towards her house. In an instant, he turned to ash and a soft breeze blew him away. His many wives fled from the place, and told every orc they knew not to visit that island.

“Being told what to do is that exact way to make a Nord man do the opposite. The jarl of Windhelm (and you must remember this happened a very long time ago), waited for summer to open the seaways, so that he may sail for the isle and lay claim to her himself.

“But before he arrived, a strong Argonian made the long swim all the way from Black Marsh to the Isle of Diryl. He shook off his tail and then strode straight to the cottage on top of the hill and declared, ‘I have swum so far, that surely you must see my devotion to you.‘I do not ask of you to bear children, only raise the little ones in the village where I am Sap Speaker.’

“For the first time, the woman exited her cottage, which the Argonian thought was too his favor. He was so excited, he was petrified. This made it very easy for her to grab him by the tail, and whirl him around so hard that when she let go he flew right back to his village.

“By now, the Bosmer of Valenwood had composed a long bridge made of leather strips. She was not pleased by this development, but she did not oppose it, for she never liked to assume anyone was that stupid. Unfortunately, they were, when it was finally complete, they sidled across it one by one in a great line that stretched miles.

“She was so insulted by this queue of men, she willed the bridge out of existence and a great many of them drowned. That very day, Skyrim’s scant fleet warships approached her island. When they declined to rescue those flailing in the water, she decided to drown them too.

“By now, each province issued an edict that strictly forbade anyone from traveling to her island. That did not stop Breton pirates, nor nosy Imperials. Not even the cleverest Khajiit could trick her, and returned to his land bare of fur and forever unable to grow anymore.

“The Dunmer had taken note of all the previous failures, thought they had most certainly sorted her troubles. To them, a human of this power must be the daughter of Boethiah and thus the House of Vythis sent an entire delegation to arrange her marriage into their most illustrious house. They arrived with reams of paperwork about generous annuities, dowries, and the like, but they all disappeared like Dwemer the moment their ships came aground.

“That seemed to do it. For an entire year no one bothered her, and she thought she would finally have her peace. It wasn’t until some time in the warmer months that she had her final visitor.

“He came by a small boat, carrying only a small, paper box. The Altmer man wore beautiful but humble silk robes, and bore a handsome complexion like wet sand. He walked very carefully on her island, replacing any rock accidentally kicked, and moving aside when a rabbit stiffened in fear of the stranger.

“When he approached her steps, she did not kill him, for she recognized the baker and was curious to his wants. She peaked from around her curtains and watched him place the paper box on the steps. Their eyes met, but he looked away shyly and hurried off without saying a word.

“She opened the door, calling out, ‘What do you want?’

“He turns and introduces himself politely, ‘I want to give you a box of your favorite sweets. You usually come to shore to get them from my shop, but, well, it’s most understandable that you have not made the trip lately.’

‘Are you in the habit of giving away your product? What do you get out of this?’

“Very humbly, he admits, ‘I always enjoyed your smile when you would eat them in my shop.’

‘I will not smile for you!’

‘Oh! Of course not, ma’am. Taking your time is precious enough. I could not possibly ask anything else of you!’

‘It is forbidden for you to come here!’ she sputters, too bashful to look at him even still, but still walking towards him slowly.

‘It is, but I could not stand to think of you without your favorite sweets and that smile.’

“Stunned that he had not asked for anything but her happiness, she asks, ‘Why?’

“He ponders that a moment, and decides to be honest, ‘I love you, of course.’

‘But you have never said anything before!’

‘I love you in the way that I love flowers in the field and fish in the sea. I cannot take it from your place and call it love, you see.’

‘And what if I were to ask to take you from yours? Would you stay here with me and see that smile every day if you could?’

“His eyes lit up, and he nodded over and over. So lonely was her heart that small tears formed in her eyes when they finally embraced. He asked three times, and then they kissed in the sunlight, where Mara saw them and their pure intentions. Under her loving gaze, they were wed right there and lived happily ever after.”

“Mmm…” Ondolemar says, eyes closed, basking in the chastity of the kiss of marriage.

“Did you like that story?” you ask as you finally swing your legs around to sit next to him.

“Yes, I loved it…” he replies dreamily.

“Good. Now get some sleep,” you say.

“Good night, miss.”

“Good night, sir.”

You have every intention of staying awake to keep an eye on him, but ultimately drift to dreams of sunny islands and a perfect husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We made it to a dozen chapters fam. This is nuts.
> 
> Not to dunk on my old fandom but somehow Ondolemar, a somewhat random (if not utterly perfect and amazing) NPC, has more character and context than 50% of the main roster of Overwatch. Love me some Hanzo, Love my some Reaper, but seriously Blizzard, Overwatch does not have lore. It has 30-some OC's that sometimes overlap. (okay I'm done)
> 
> This franchise is nice and easy to write and everyone is a peach. I keep thinking I'm going to burn out, but with the nice weather I can now sit on my porch ~~~in nature~~~ and that really gets me in the mood to write perfect elf husband.


	13. Outfoxed

You don’t know what exactly woke you, but when you eyes opens you find a man is going through your apron, apparently robbing you. Having sensed the shift, Verel glances up and for a long moment you lock eyes, waiting for the other to make a move. The moment you take a breath to scream, his hands are around your neck.

You grab Ondolemar lying on the bed, but he’s sleeping like the dead. You give up on him quickly and focus on prying his fingers from your neck. You quickly realize you can’t thrash too much because it makes you want to pass out, so much so that you didn’t even realize you were breathing right away.

You look at the floor, and there’s Verel, having clutched his head in the last moment of consciousness. Stunned by this turn of events, you watch him for a long time, wondering if that man just died, but you see him breathing.

“Oh, praise Stendarr, he’s still alive.”

You scurry up onto the bed more, practically clinging to Ondolemar.

“Wait, wait,” Liithric says putting down your master’s mace very slowly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“What do we do?” you say, trying not turn hysterical but Verel is not moving at all except his chest.

“Tie him up?”

“Tie him up?!”

“That is standard military protocol. He is a hostile. If he wakes up, he will have every incentive to finish the job. Not that I can see anything in here that I could tie him up with anyways.”

“I happen to have some twine…” you say, having actually accumulated a small ball of scraps knotted together. It would do just fine, at least slow him down and give them a chance to react.

“Go get Sirilowne and Arquen,” you say to him.

“Out cold. The other guy ransacked our room and they didn’t even move. I tried to wake them after, and nothing. Usually they’re up in an instant if a roll over too loud. What about Ondolemar?”

You reach over and prod his face, tickle his nose, and slap him twice quite firmly, but he doesn’t even flinch.You might as well start assessing the damage, starting with an apron that had been thoroughly ransacked til halfway through the second row! Then you look to the side table.

“My journal…” you say, reaching out in vain for it. “I have to get it back.”

“Whoa, whoa, these people are dangerous,” Liithric says in a low voice. “Just wait until Ondolemar wakes up and let him handle it.”

Ondolemar handle the recovery of your _diary?!_ Oh, no, no, no, no way! Absolutely not. If he even glanced the wrong page! No, nope. He cannot even know it exists.

“I’m not waiting.”

“Wait,” Liithric says just before you open the door. “Think about this.”

“Absolutely not,” you say before you open the half-door and crouch into the servants’ halls. The door closes behind you and you’re shrouded in the dark. Luckily, you traded your muddy traveling boots for your soft-soled shoes yesterday.

Not that you needed to much luck. Growing up in the cavernous Understone Keep with a house steward that took a switch to your ankles if you walked too loudly, meant you’re silent in a wooden structrure.No one could possibly hear or feel your steps, but you can’t discount a chance encounter, or that the Bosmer has a night vision spell.

The upstairs of the inn is eight rooms, and the tunnel wraps around the outside of the house. Besides being very cold, they were excellent for spying on people trying to eke by in the cramped rooms.

“Now, now, Miesta, remember, it’s your fault you wrote in your diary that you still believe Talos! I bet the Thalmor would love to read it.” That was Mux, but that didn’t totally rule out the second person in the tunnels. You’d bet money the bard has something to with it too.

“You can’t keep doing this!” a hysterical woman replies.

“Who has the confession? Me. _Me… Me,_ ” he says as you tip-toe passed.

The servants’ hall is unbroken at the end of the hall, allowing the servants to room anywhere without being _seen_. So far, every room but your own party’s held dozens of people, but this one seems to only have one person in it. When you open the door, anyone in the eyesight will see you, but you take the risk even so.

You were right and relieved: Tyronnus is with the group, but he is currently passed out with the lute in his hand.No sense in tempting fate though, you begin to explore the room to recover what was stolen from you and quickly, before Mux checks up on his stash.You expected your diary was stolen because it was relatively new, but the tables hold far more personal journals that coin and jewelry combined.

There must be two hundred in no particular order, and after rearranging a few stacks you realize it’s likely Ondolemar’s journal is here too, and you cannot have your master being blackmailed. It would be much better to collect all the journals and sort it out somewhere that’s a little less lethal.

You take a drawer from the cabinet and load up every journal, stuffing a few of the smaller ones in your apron. You also take ever piece of jewelry you can find, and as many coins will fit in your bodice where they won’t jingle. Carrying all of this back in a low, cramped is going to test your thighs and tear up your knuckles and you won’t regret it one bit. As much as this started about your own journal, it has now become spiting Mux as much as possible.

You rest your head on the door of Ondolemar’s room and Liithric let’s you in, absolutely perplexed by the bounty you’ve managed to drag back.

“Help me find my diary,” you ask. Now back in the room, you realize it will only be a matter of time before Mux discovers he’s been robbed, and you want to at least have your journal when that happens.”

“Alright,” he says as he kneels down by the opposite side of the back “Uh… What’s name I’m looking for?”

You tell him before returning to your search. The stress is so overwhelming that somehow you don’t remember what the journal looked like but somehow you can remember your name is on the inside so you check each one frantically.

“Mux has been blackmailing everyone in this town…” Liithric comments, more methodical in his appraisals. “This is Cearoyl’s diary.”

You open one with a name calligraphed in Aldmeris: “ _This journal belongs to The Twentieth of the Second, The Gentle Rain That Summons New Flowers in the Young Spring, The Soft Breeze that Brings the Seeds and Healing, Most Often Called Vistir P’hyll.”_

“Wow, that’s a long name,” you say.

Liithric peers a bit closer and remarks, “I’ve seen longer.”

“Really?”

“Well, it’s important to make sure no one has the exact same name in the official record. Plus, it gives the child something to remind them that their parents love them for simply being.”

“What’re are the numbers?”Just then you have the epiphany that your own journal probably fits your apron. The first one you find crammed in a pocket is a disappointment, but you keep digging.

“Oh, that’s denotes how close you are to the ancestors. The first number is the generations removed, usually rounded down.”

“Rounded down?”

“Well, if a ten and a nine have a baby, then that baby is nine-and-a-half, mathematically. Nine sounds so much better, though. Then the second digit stand for which ancestor. I believe these days only Auri-El is one, and everyone else is tied for two.”

Yours is the second in your pocket, but you continue looking into the volumes because you suspect Ondolemar’s may be in this pile too. Your suspicion is confirmed by the last diary in your pockets.

“ _This journal belongs to the_ _Twenty-First_ _of the First, That_ _Thing That Should Not Have Been_ _, better known as Ondolemar Thromaire.”_

You read it twice and then just gape at such a strange name. Your reaction draws Liithric’s curiosity but you close the book and put it back in your apron.

As you continue sorting through the pile, you remark: “You know, I once heard that Redguard mothers will give their babies nicknames like ‘ugly’ and ‘deformed’ so that evil spirits wouldn’t attack their babies. Do Altmer ever do anything like that?”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. The purpose of our short names, like Liithric and Ondolemar, are to protect our true names, so we wouldn’t need such a practice.”

“I see…” you say. It is very probable Ondolemar had written a false-real name in his diary. After all, anyone that stumbles on his true name will practically own his soul.

“Ma’am, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Even if you were drunk, that does not give you an excuse to be discourteous.”

“You’re right. I wish Eidoril had not insisted I go to the Dwemer ruin in the first place. I always found them to be a bit… spooky. I will never be able to fathom why he always wants me around when all I do is cause trouble.”

“You don’t know why Eidoril wanted you there?” you ask curiously.

“What? No? Look at this heathen,” he says, pointing to the journal. “The did not writing their names in the front of the diary! Who does that, really?” he says, “I guess I’ll have to read their thoughts to deduce who the rightful owner is.”

“You let me do the reading,” you say, wanting to avoid a Thalmor agent from finding anyone’s Talos confessions.

As you take the book a heavy thud shakes the upper floor, like someone tossed an entire cabinet. It’s followed by the distinct sound of a table being cleared and thrown.People are waking up to a stream of swears from a furious Mux while you scramble to Ondolemar’s side.

“Sir! Sir! Please wake up! We need help!”

Mux kicks in a door far down the hall, demanding everyone inside let him search their possessions. You move closer to his ear to make your voice louder without yelling, but he still doesn’t stir. You wonder if this is like a fairytale where you’ll need to kiss him to wake him. Mux has already moved to the next room, and so you decide you’ll try anything.

Despite the danger and the seriousness of kisses that break spells, you avert your lips at the last moment to kiss his cheek. You lips only touched him briefly, but you recoil in bashfulness a moment later, so quickly that by the time he is fully awake he does not realized that kiss happened anywhere but his dream.

Despite his hurting head, he’s quick to jump to his feet and center himself to deal with whatever danger is coming for him.

Ondolemar turns to you and says: “What’s that noise?”

You’re so flustered you pick up random journals and speak behind them: “Mux stole your journal and I stole it back-”

“And about a hundred others!” he says, regarding the mess on the floor, and then noticing Verel, who seems to be just as dazed as him.

“This is a mess,” he grumbles as he reaches in his pocket to retrieve Liithric’s key. “Prisoner, I am putting my trust in you. If you lose that trust, you lose your life. You will consider this reprieve a great gift. These chains will return when Mux is processed.”

“Thank you sir,” he says. When Ondolemar unfetters him, he gasps like he had been drowning for days.

When Ondolemar steps in the hall, he quickly intercepts the Bosmer and informs him of his arrest after he handcuffs him in the Chains of Sundering, which exhaust any elf. Mux cannot even manage to stand, jerking about like a fish tiredly flopping on shore.

“Liithric,” he calls out, and the man emerges, “Begin escorting the prisoner to Vistir immediately. I will catch up after I’ve collected the evidence and sorted my affairs.”

“Yes sir.”

“I may factor a complete and total success of this mission into you sentencing. _Might.”_

“Yes sir!” he says, supposing a freak chance is better than no chance.

Rousing Sirilowne and Arquen took quite some time, but the veteran army grunts were quite used to working hungover. Without complaint Arquen carries Verel to Vistir ahead of Ondolemar, whocarries the drawer full of journals to Vistir. All two hundred, minus the party’s five which were being carried by you to the brothel

Ondolemar admitted that it would be impossible to depart today, and impossible to stay at The Wild Hunt. The brothel, a veritable palace at the western edge of the town, is at least safe from druggists and pickpockets, at the very least.

You find the place to be in good order and the staff very friendly, but you’ll have to put your polish on the place to ensure your master’s comfort. You dust the fixtures, shake out the sheets, and begin running a bath on a very slow faucet, and then lean on the wall with nothing to do and a million things to think about.

You stare at Ondolemar’s journal, perched on the nightstand, half-tempted to leaf through it for clues. Was that cold name really just an attempt to throw off a rival? Even the tense of the verb is rude, so low you would use it with a rival. The connotation of the lowest tense is things without souls, so even a well loved dolly or bow would receive higher tenses than that… Wouldn’t changing “gentle” to “tender” be enough? Maybe not, but then when not make something at least pleasant, at least _neutral_?

Arquen returned first, and she does not look like she wants to talk at all.You suspect Liithric would rather sleep too, but he’s okay with dallying in the hall in relative freedom.

“Can I bother you for one more question?” you ask.

“Yes, I actually have one for you,” he says.

“Would an illegitimate child get a nice name like Vistir has?”

“Yes, of course. I know how we seem to outsiders, but we wouldn’t ever give someone a mean-spirited name. Even hulkynd are named tenderly.”

“I see…” you say, sorely disappointed you haven’t solved the mystery, “What was your question?”

“Earlier, you said something like ‘you don’t know why Eidoril wanted you to come along?’. It sounded like you knew the reason and could not believe I didn’t understand. How would you know better than me?”

Stunned, you answer, “Eidoril is very fond of you.”

“Ah yes! We have been fast friends ever since we met in High Rock!” he says jovially.

“He holds you more dearly than that,” you say honestly.

“What is the basis of your assessment?”

“The fact that you’re the only person he’s nice to.

“That? Just because I am most familiar with his rough characteristics?” You shake your head. “I fail to see any other evidence!”

“He visited you in prison every day, which totally ostracized him from the salon.”

“Such a good friend!”

“… Sure. I must retire now,” you say.

“Good night.”

You slip back into the room and slump onto the daybed. You should be able to drift right to sleep, but your mind is still stuck on that _name_.

You almost cave and read his journal, but you ultimately decide to pass the time by rearranging all of the loot in your apron. You should have handed it over, but in all the confusion you forgot and now it looks dubious at best.Maybe you can hand the things over when you see Ondolemar again.

From a small pocket you withdraw a Fevkyn’s necklace, or at least a replica. You examine it in the candlelight and discover a tell-tale notch, just like the mer himself, and yet you don’t know what to make of the relic. You gave this to Ondolemar, right? So why was he keeping it? And why is the cord cut like he was wearing it around his neck?

You suddenly remember your rule: Don’t try to understand Altmer. Repeating your mantra works, and you begin to feel sleepy. After screwing the tap off you settle on the daybed and fall asleep with your diary held tightly to your chest.

When Ondolemar arrives in the room, your arms have slipped to the side, and your diary is splayed on your body. He briefly considers reading it, but ultimately decides to pull the blanket at your feet up and tuck you into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!


	14. Rainy Delay

The travel in Cyrodiil is as idyllic as it is uneasy. There plenty of new plants to pluck, new people to trade with, extra coin to be earned, and a small inn to sleep in. Ondolemar seems very preoccupied, but you suppose that’s to be expected when one gets drugged and robbed on the first day in the province. Perhaps you will press about it, lest the anguish fester, but for now you suppose he might appreciate some space.

If only you knew. Quite recently, he acknowledged he _sometimes_ gives you orders to have an excuse to talk to you. The revelation brought a heavy veil of shame onto his affect, and he vows to never speak harshly to you simply for the sake of speaking. This however, left your conversations very brief, and it seems the you hardly speak with each other anymore.

You don’t seem to have noticed…

“Sir,” Sirilowne comments, pointing to the sky.

The dark clouds collecting due east prevail over his lament. The winds is bringing it quickly, and the spring rainstorm quickly, and it seems today’s trek shall be cut short by a few hours.

They party leads the nervous horses to a grove of short trees, the taller pines being deep in the forest. Sirilowne must use all her magic to keep the animals calm; the wind is so strong is turns the rain into arrows the whip at the skin as Arquen and Liithric pound in a stake to hitch the cart to.

Meanwhile you struggle to raise the canvas coverings that will protect the carts and provide shelter. Ondolemar is helping, but the canvas is catching the wind. You two make short work of the second one. You crawl inside to finish securing the canvas to the hood and light a lantern; Ondolemar dashes off to help Sirilowne secure the horses, which patter their feet every time thunder rumbles by.

Ondolemar secures a rune to the stakes to prevent lightning from striking them, but once the horses are tied, there isn’t any time to waste. The spring storm is ripping through the valley, and the need to jumped into the carts to help weigh them down.

Sirilowne, Arquen, and Liithric jump into the empty cart, and Ondolemar in the one where you have just finished arranging the cases to there is a bench made of luggage lining the back of the cart. As soon as you’ve tied the canvas door shut, Ondolemar casts his warmth spell to dry the inside of the cart.

“Would you like a book, sir?” you ask over the roar of the rain. It’s only when Ondolemar is done peeling off his jacket that he sits down and realizes you’ve spoken to him. He cups his hand to his ear and you shout your question again over crack of lightning.

“No thank you!” he shouts back.

“What?”

“No thank you!!”

“I can’t hear you!” you call out.

He produces his journal and you nod. You sit on the other side of the bench and open a book you’ve already laid out for yourself.You thumb through, looking for the page you were one. Ondolemar wonders if you know of bookmarks.

Ondolemar feels pencil is most appropriate for this poem he is penning in his journal. After all, his love for you is an impermanent thing, something that will need to be erased at some point… That’s why he has to cherish every moment he has left with you, and that’s why it’s so infuriating he can’t think of anything to say!

Once his ode to his romantic frustrations were coalesced into poetry, he could focus on writing a leisurely account of a boring day and peeking your way to casually figure out what you’re reading. The embossing has flaked terribly, but after much consternation, he finally manages to read: _The Falmer, Their Culture, and The Tale of Their Only Surviving Offspring,_ _Volume 2._

Now that the rain has slowed, Ondolemar can ask, “Have you read volume one?”

“Oh yes!” you say. Realizing that sounded eager, you add quietly, “It is quite informative.”

“I had no idea you were so interested in the Falmer.”

“Well, the author is very compelling,” you answer, hoping he doesn’t press more. In truth, the title is a _bit_ misleading; the series is more like a steamy romance novel than a serious history.

“Is there a volume three in the series?”

“There better be!”

He chuckles. How much information about the Falmer could there be? If he remembered correctly, Eidoril and Calcelmo marveled over a single tablet that contained just a handful of hints about the Falmer, a feast in a famine of information about the Snow Elves. “Where did you get that?”

“I bought them from the brothel,” you admit, “one and two.”

Seeing that he has no more questions, you go back to your story, where the veritable and virile Gelethor is about to stumble upon the beautiful yet nondescript maiden that accompanies him on his travels.

Annoyed a history book is more exciting than him, Ondoleamr goes on, “You know miss, you’ve missed your daily questions for a few days now. Seven, actually, and I shan’t let you accumulate more.”

You close the book, wishing to savor that scene without your master’s interruptions. “That is very fair, but let me reflect a moment… Hmm…”

Pderhaps the name Ondolemar inscribed in his diary? But you don’t know how he’ll react to the breach of his privacy. What about that strange amulet? Why would Ondolemar _wear_ Fevkyn’s old amulet? Was it evidence? Personal taste? Did it possess some magical property that eludes you? To ask him about it would be to admit you stole it; you don’t fancy your chances on that reaction either.

Ondolemar grows impatient and interrupts your musing, “Allow me to settle a sensitive topic: you will receive a reward for the recovery of the journals. The amount is yet to be determined.”

“Thank you sir,” you say, although that makes you feel _worse._

“Surely you’ve thought of _one_ thing to ask,” he remarks somewhat incredulously.

Then there’s the real elephant in the room: you _kissed_ him. On the cheek! While he was asleep! His skin was so soft… His lips must be even softer...

No! You can’t be thinking about this stuff in front of him! Usually you can slip away to do laundry or run an errand, but you can’t go outside. Ondolemar’s eyes are narrowing, and you know you look guilty right now!

“Sir… when you were asleep and Mux was searching the inn… I… um…”

“Whatever it is, it’s excused because you were clearly out of your mind! You do realize I would have fixed things when I woke! You were successful, yes, but it was an unnecessary risk! You could have been hurt!” he says, stopping himself as his throat tightened.

“I’m sorry sir,” you say, though inwardly you’re genuinely surprised he’s this upset. If you didn’t know better, you would say he was so worried he was in love.

“Now what is your question?” he says.

You say the first safe thing that comes to mind: “Why do we have to go to the Imperial City if we’re not taking a ship? Also, why aren’t we taking a ship?”

“Make it a habit to only ask one question at a time, miss,” he says with a disappointed sigh. “First it is simply not done to pass through Cyrodiil without seeing Ambassador Kry’thyne. Ambassadors are fragile creatures like that. Visiting the central Thalmor Embassy will be good for you. My advice? Don’t trust easily.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

“As for the second question, you can thank Liithric for that. Someone convicted of a capital crime cannot travel by boat. It’s a clause in the White-Gold Concordat in the mutual interest of not inciting piracy.”

“How… will he get to Summerset, then?”

“Who said he’s going back to Summerset? I only said that to keep him compliant. If he thinks he’s going home, he’ll do anything.”

“What is his sentence then?” you ask, though you think you already know.

“Do you remember his ‘friend’ Eidoril? He’s going to be the new justiciar in Markarth. Liithric will be his manservant, and do all the things you did every day, including the things you think I don’t know about, like cutting bread at lunch and doing dishes _late_ at night.”

“ _Was he spying on me?! Does he not trust me?”_

A small voice in your head replies, _“Then why would he go to the trouble of bringing you along? No, he was spying on you because he fancies you.”_

No matter how you shake it off as absurd, the thought won’t leave completely. It would explain a lot…

“You still have four questions, miss,” he states like a persistent genie.

Not by your count but you follow his lead. “Who named you?”

He blinks a few times in confusion before answering, “My father, why?”

“I like your name,” you say. Technically it’s not a lie.

“…Thank you. So, you still have four questions.”

“No, that’s three,” you protest gently.

“Asking a question about your question restores a question to your account.”

Just when you think you understand him… “Will you were a lighter uniform once we get to Summerset? That seems like it would be awful hot.”

“Questions like that are why I enjoy your interviews!” he remarks pleasantly. “How awful it must be without magic… To answer your question, I use magic to keep myself cool and warm. Next.”

There’s so much you need to _not_ talk about, it’s making you draw a blank. You resort to conversation starters you’ve used in the past: “If you could be any kind of Khajiit, which would you want to be?”

“A Senche-Raht, like Jhaskar but bigger than a sabre cat,” he answers.

“Would you let anyone ride on your back?” you ask.

“One person,” he answers shyly. Usually Ondolemar loves talking about himself, but every now and then he plays coy. His suspicious gaze warns against further prodding, not that you would know where to begin with dissecting his thoughts.

Ondolemar fears leaving that remark open too long, and changes the subject: “I can tell something weighs heavily on you.”

Playing the homesick angle, you ask, “Who do you think will win the civil war in Skyrim?”

He huffs in annoyance. “Please ask appropriate questions.”

That answered it well enough for you: the Dominion is in fact a secret, third player in The Troubled Times.

He chides, “Stay out of that kind of thing, miss. You will be labeled a spy if you seem too interested in Skyrim’s affairs. Whatever you suppose out of my non-answer is irrelevant by the nature of the response. You have _two_ questions to ask, and you shall ask them well.”

“Have you ever met your fiancee, Aenydi?”

That questions seems to make him even more uncomfortable. “Aenydi and I ran in similar circles when we were young, but I can’t say we were particularly close… Not that it matters, her family opposes the match, of course” he says, though his tone implies he objects too.

“Is the match uneven?”

“Oh yes. Her family owns the Archival Library, which holds a copy of every book in the capital’s library. Tou can imagine how important it is, well above my statio, even if my father is a councilman and my mother is Birylayn, The Architect of Machis.”

“Your mother is titled?”

“Granted by King A’ozis himself. She is very famous!” he says, beaming. You wonder how badly he misses his mother, and how much he loathes his father. “Anyways, I barely warrant the trouble of having a wedding!”

“Don’t say that! Anyone would be lucky to marry you!”

He swears you say these things just to fluster him. Always with the sunniest smile too…

Ondolemar focuses himself and scoffs, “You cannot fathom the complexity of getting married in Summerset er- Alinor, that is.”

You internally scoff, but remain kind when you speak, “Just tell me one thing, one thing, so that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.”

“I wouldn’t know the first thing to tell you, honestly. Everything I do up to and including the signature on the marriage certificate will be scrutinized for error. A blotchy pen could annul the entire affair.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do! I’ll carve you the perfect quill so your signature will be flawless.”

“Please don’t,” he says in a small voice. He can see it now: signing the certificate, the final step, his final chance to follow his heart, and he’s holding something you crafted because you genuinely care about his happiness. He would probably split in two right there. “There are many things, the- the flowers, the clothing, the guest list, having my first kiss in front of a crowd of hundreds!”

“Your-”

“Yes my first!” he snaps, “I don’t have to explain myself to you!”

“I’m sorry, sir! You’re just so handsome! I’m surprised to hear no one’s ever kissed you! Not even in secret?”

He _swears_ you do these things on purpose!

“You flatter me,” he says coolly, though his ears are turning red.

“Surely this is not the first time you heard such a thing!”

The emotion bubbles over and he laughs to release it. “I am not very handsome by Altmeri standards. My lips are far too full and my nose has been broken, not that it was very shapely to begin with.”

“I find both features _quite_ agreeable, sir. I don’t think you should have an ounce of worry about either.”

Overwhelmed with happiness, he blurts “You’re very comely yourself, miss.”

“Me? I- oh, but my hands! They’re so rough-”

“They’re perfect.”

He states it so plainly your inner-mean voice is stunned silent. In the quiet of the falling rain you sit with his words, all them. Sometimes you wonder what he’s really thinking, before his brain leaps ten steps ahead with two dozen assumptions.

You finally pipe up: “How shall you prefer the sleeping arrangements be done? There is room for one on the floor and one on the crates.”

“Neither of those options sounds suitable. The crates are uneven, and laying width wise in the cart will be cramped.”

“Sometimes, when you’re not around, I forget how tall you are,” you admit. “Well, I suppose we can rearrange the crates so that they run the length of the cart, though, it was quite the puzzle to work them out in this configuration.”

“Disregard if the idea offends you, but if you slept on the floor with me, we would not have to work out a bench for you to lie on. We would sleep facing opposite ways, of course.”

“I was hoping you would suggest that! There’s only one blanket in this cart.”

_Sharing a blanket?!_ He didn’t realize that was part of the deal, but it’s too late now. The boxes are moved, the single bedroll spread out, and the lantern lazily swinging where it had been hung. When you carefully lay down next to him, he is certain he will never get his heart rate to slow, though eventually he drifts off into bliss.

/ / /

Ondolemar hears the footsteps, but he doesn’t have time to react before Sirilowne is oepning the wagon flap. She calls out, “Guv-tam!” before adding, “Whoa!” throwing the flap closed, and laughing.

Sometime in the night, you had turned over and embraced Ondolemar with one arm. Your face was pressed against his back until you jolted awake, stumbling out of the cart before you fully understood why Sirilowne is snickering.

“Good morning, miss,” Arquen says jokingly. “How did you enjoy your night?”

“Oh hush,” you growl, paying to Mara _that_ doesn’t get added to the bloody song.

Ondolemar strolls out a moment later, and you remember your apron. You duck back inside the wagon, hoping that Nocturnal concealed your stolen goods from his nosy fingers.

After checking twice, the strange amulet is unaccounted for, the mystery being not who took it, but why?


	15. My Gift to You

A tax excised X miles from a settlement will produce another settlement X+1 miles away, like this town six miles outside the Imperial City. The clear air, cool running stream, and many merchants selling everything from haircuts to heaps of spices draw travelers in to rest before exploring the capital, though Ondolemar’s business is too urgent to risk distraction.

He half-expected the inn to be full, but one room is free. Sirirlowne and Arquen offer to camp outside, eager to spend time together. Before they can skip away, Ondolemar gives them one more task: take off Liithric’s chains until he ceases to be that ghastly shade of gray.

They agree to take him far away from the town, which guarantees they will not be a both. Next, he informs the innkeeper that she will be charged with treason if she approaches the room before tomorrow morning, and then all the neighbors. Once everyone understands how secret his Thalmor business is, he joins you in the room where you have finally arrived with the trunk.

He saddles you an impossible shopping list. Seven black porcupine’s quills, a thin gold ring used so often in alchemy, it will exceed your budget. The final item, blue flowers with red thorns, doesn’t even exist. You will likely go mad trying to find all the items within a budget, but he cannot go without privacy another minute.

Ondolemar hurries you out of the room and locks the door behind you before shuttering the windows. A muffle spell on the bed and himself, a desk pushes up against the door and covering the keyhole. He checks over the scene twice, and still feels compelled to strip very, very quietly.

His erection bounces once it’s freed, having been so painfully confined ever since he woke up with you curled against him. He swore his felt a ghost of heat on his back for the last two days, taunting his every moment with filthy, naughty thoughts.

Ondolemar examines the sheets on the bed for a long time before his lust overtakes his health concerns. He lies on top of the sheets, heavy erection bobbing as he adjusted himself. With everything happening between the salon and his birthday, Ondolemar hasn’t been able to release himself in months. Before he’s even touched himself, he knows he is going to empty his balls thinking about you.

He teases his cock with slow strokes, hips thrusting up on their own to chase the burning need for friction. The precum is already slicking his palm, and thinking about your wet covering his dick too- No, that will make him cum too fast. He needs to enjoy this time slowly so everything in him has time to build up.

You, clothed, straddling him, leaning over on him, practically laying on him, kissing him… Oh yes, he could think about _that_ forever and not arrive at his release. Your soft hands rubbing his ears lightly; your moans when his hands dip under your skirt; your soft ass when he squeezes it with both hands, pulling you closer under your hips can grind against his.

He opens his eyes to look at his cock sliding through his hand. It begs to be deep in something tight and warm, even just the tip pressing passed your lips, your tongue polishing the edge, _fuck!_ Precum covers the shaft, which he fucks into his grip, imagining your lips at the end of his fist.

It’s always in these dirty fantasies that he thinks about the rumors about sex with humans. _“Enough wet that it rolls down your balls,”_ seems like the kind of thing an elf would make up, but what if he could fuck you soundly enough for that? His cock would slide in and out so easily, so quickly, that he could pound you out hard enough to-

“Fuck…!” he whispers, forcing himself to stop while he catches his breath. He needs to draw it out, train himself so he doesn’t finish as soon as he enters a woman.

After long, deep sighs, his hand returning to his throbbing cock, and his mind wanders to wondering about your body. Always covered, hinting at its true form, yet still tantalizing him with all of that mystery. Oh, to be lucky enough to stumble across you bathing! By complete accident, of course, but you refuse to believe it and demand an explanation.

After sheepishly admitting his curiosity, you smile knowingly and beckon him towards the bath tub. Though long enough for him, it is not wide enough for him to lay anyway but to straddle you. He knows he would be too shy to sit his hips on yours, so you would have to pull him down, your hands traveling down his thighs when he is done.

You’d break away to let your gaze follow them, and say in breathy sighs, _“Oh Ondolemar! I never expected an elf to be so thick!”_

“ _It’s all yours, beautiful. You do whatever you want with that,”_ he’d offer, heart racing, pleading that you touch him somewhere, anywhere. Even your hands roaming his thighs is sweet relief, but he gasps when you touch his cock.

A single finger traces the length of his dick, and you watch it jump with need. The mere idea of you touching him… _there_ , much less the sight. You’re the inquisitive kind, so you would stroke it lightly like that for awhile, using only your fingertips until you finally wrap your fingers around his cock.

“ _I really like your cock,”_ you say.

He almost groans aloud when the door hits the desk three times in quick succession, none of them opening it, but all of them killing his fantasy hour.

“Who goes there?!” Ondolemar calls out.

“Master, I can’t get the door open!”

“You found all of the items?” he asks, supposing some clever Khajiit fooled you.

“I can’t find the blue flowers with red thorns!” you say. “I talked to everyone, and everyone says they don’t exist.”

“Look harder!” he says in frustration. His erection doesn’t flag, no, it leaks more clear droplets and demands to be rewarded.

“Sir, you sound strained. Are you certain you are okay?” you say.

“Your worry is flattering, but I am engaging in private- _Thalmor_ business. You must depart presently, miss! Please!” he says while shamelessly stroking himself. The naughtiness of it all, masturbating with only a thin door between you two. It’s as filthy as he feels, but he can’t stop himself, not now, not when this is the closest he may ever get to planting his seed inside of you.

He doesn’t hear you depart, so Ondolemar sputters out: “Buy me a new handkerchief. I’ve accidentally set mine ablaze. I will recompense you for the trouble.”

The fantasy is far beyond his control; the thought of you in this room with him, fucking yourself onto his cock, hands twisted in your hair, _begging_ for his child. He would pant that he will make an honest woman of you and you would cry out, _“I want my husband to give me a child!”_ over and over until-

“Ah fuck!” he grunts as the first spurt lands on his cheek.

“Sir!”

That word alone sent him to a higher peak; in a moment of desperation, Ondolemar begs, “Call my name!”

“Ondolemar?”

His freehand covers his mouth as he gasps out “yes, yes” and your name over and over. The spend covers the walls, the sheets, his hair, his hands, until the pumps grow weak and the semen thick. Then, it slides out lazily over him, until his very soul leaves him.

“Sir, are you _sure_ you are okay?”

“I’m simply… practicing magic…” he says, squeezing the last drop from his sore cock. “I am actually quite tired. I think I’ll take a nap...”

“I’ll come back when I have your handkerchief and take your temperature,” you say before walking back down the hall.

Which means no nap; He needs to clean up _now_.

There’s no way his handkerchief is going to survive this cleanup, or even be much of help with this much semen. He licks up as much of his own cum as possible, and then uses the water basin to wash his hands and his hair. Next he must wash the walls using the sheets, then wash the sheets in the water basin. He dries the sheets, burns the handkerchief, redresses, and then remakes the bed how he remembered it. Once he take the water basin downstairs and complains that it’s dirty, a scullery maid returns it sparkling clean. The water pump is a bit sticky, but he manages to refill the basin and return it upstairs. After double-checking the room and triple-checking himself, Ondolemar concludes that he mustn’t have to do this again in the near future.

His final step is opening the window and then sitting down to write a few letters; after all, he had something proper to show for his time. He pens a long for his mother, and then decides his sisters will likely complain if they do not get another letter soon. After letter number three, Ondolemar stretches out his hand before jotting down a brief note for his friend Veogy. He supposes he should write to Aenydi, but, four letters is plenty for one day. Tomorrow, perhaps.

By the time he finishes with everything, it is well after supper and too late to send the mail out today. After locking his letters in his trunk he decides to seek you out in the town, lest you be out alone at night. After searching nearly every, you run right into his chest, having stomped out of a Khajiiti tent.

Since you take insults for a living, Ondolemar brushes off your apologies and asks about the heart of the matter: “Was there a disagreement?”

“Over the reward!” the merchant replies as she emerges from the tent, holding a bag of coins. “This one is far too humble. You stopped that thief in his tracks.”

“Oh…?”

“It was nothing,” you say hurriedly. The insult had come mid-negotiation on your stolen goods, but you were simply grateful to have them out of your possession. Just in case the fence had any tricks in mind you say, “Fr’liis, I introduce High Justiciar of Skyrim, Ondolemar Thromaire,” and you gesture to your boss.

You left the stolen jewelry behind when you stormed out, but Fr’liis knows better than to out or anger anyone associated with the Thalmor. Just to ensure things are smooth (as her “reward” is a blatant under offer), the merchant offers, “Ondolemar like tea? Free tea for new friends. Sit down, I will bring you tea.”

“Let this be a lesson in etiquette,” Ondolemar says to you, “Never accept free anything from a Khajiiti stranger. They consider it rude not to pay at all. Even a token or a good story is more acceptable than to take something for free.”

You put two coins on the counter before he has even finished his lecture.

“This is highly irregular!” Ondolemar protests.

To his surprise you retort, “I won’t hear it! I want to pay you back for all the nice things you’ve done for me!”

Fr’liis wonders if Ondolemar is going to faint but luckily he finds the wherewithal to reply, “I didn’t do those things for repayment. I did it to investment in your future.”

“And now I’m on a bonafide adventure!” you say in disbelief.

Not wanting to have her stall occupied any longer, Fr’liis interrupts, “Sit, sit, Fr’liis will bring tea when tea is done.”

A carpet dotted is stretched out next to the stall, strewn with green cushions a little too small to be comfortable for long. Ondolemar helps you sit down gracefully, reluctantly letting go of your hands when you’re seated. He finds a place near you and after a few moment addresses his concerns: “There is no need for you to take care of me financially. It reflects poorly on me; I could construe it as an insult, if I were so inclined.”

“I just wanted to buy something for someone,” you murmur sadly.

“Well, as long as this is an anomaly and not a habit,” he says.

“Fr’liis brings tea!” the Khajiit says, walking around her stand so she can approach the rug. You each reach up and take the glass cups take the tea with soft thank. Fr’liis, however, isn’t content to let the earlier dispute dissolve so agreeably.

Once her hands are free she leans down and grabs the cushion you’re sitting on, trying to tug it towards Ondolemar, saying, “These can be much closer. Move your _bofu!_ Don’t be shy! You two are friendly so sit like you’re friendly.”

You relent because she’s making a scene, moving your cushion once. That is not good enough, and she is getting louder, so you eventually push it right against Ondolemar’s pillow and sit down. When you do, you brush his arm, and the both of you blush deeply. Fr’liis leaves with a laugh and a pleased flick of the tail before she returns to the stand to refill the kettle

As long as neither openly acknowledges the thrill of close, a veneer of plausible deniability and respectability remain, no matter how thin. You sip your tea slowly, letting the exotic aromas and body contact close out everything outside of this moment.

Minutes pass before Ondolemar interrupts your meditation, “You worry me.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, though you don’t know what you did.

He answers the unspoken question swiftly: “You would turn yourself inside out if it meant making someone else’s work one ounce lighter.

“Well, that’s the grace of Mara. She’s the true Lady of Infinite Energies.”

“Even Mara was weakened by giving too much,” he’s says gently so as not to offend. You don’t reply, so he presses on in the same tone, “Do you know the story of Phynaster?”

“He was a mortal that taught all the…” you forget if it was the Altmer or the Aldmer, so you mumble that part, “how to shorten their stride so that they could live another century!”

Having heard it both ways, Ondolemar decides to let you slide, just this once. “Do you think that is literally what he did?”

Judging by his tone you reply, “...No?”

“Correct. It is a metaphor for taking one’s time with life. One should work hard, yes, but without grinding oneself into dust. We Altmer have an infinite well of magic inside each of us, and you have an infinite well of physical energy. The temptation to continuously drain it _is_ alluring, but such a venture shortens one’s life. You must rest, or you will end up like my best friend’s uncle, dead far before the world could do without you.”

“I’m resting right now,” you say warmly to reassure him. You catch each other’s gaze and shy away from them, preferring to watch the foot traffic go by.

An old couple casts a particularly hard look in your direction, and with that you both jump to your feet feeling, as if caught red-handed. You both hurriedly pretend to look things over, but it’s clear the true goal is to walk to the edge of town and escape the knowing stares.

This finally feels like the time, so you say quietly, “Sir, can I ask something of you? Something you are free to ignore, of course…”

“What is it?”

A familiar swell of love fills Ondolemar’s chest before it twist into an aching pain, as if his heart can no contain all the unheard emotions echoing inside of him. No matter how much it hurts, it will be much worse if it all comes out. Even though this seems like the perfect place, the perfect time, he bites his lip and pushes his unrequited love farther inside of him.

You finally work up the nerve to ask your question: “Might cease calling you ‘master’? I would still call you sir or my benefactor, as appropriate”

“I find that very fitting for our closeness,” he says with a nod.

“Thank you!” you say, your smile outdoing the beauty of the sunset and emerging stars.

You lead the way now, bouncing from stall-to-stall to browse the items at the night market The only purchase of the evening is _The Falmer, Their Culture, and The Tale of Their Only Surviving Offspring, Volume 3_ , which Ondolemar insists on paying for. You clutch it to your chest, eyes sparkling as he counts out the ten coin.

“Shall we return?” Ondolemar says to you with a chuckle.

A mystic calls out, “Does miss want her fortune?” you slow your footsteps, wondering if this Argonian is worth his salt. He draws one card and says: “I see you are deeply in love with a noble man who is engaged to another. Do you want to know more?”

“No, not reall,” you say in a huff, walking off before he can divine something else.

“Don’t let a like that charlatan ruin your night,” Ondolemar urges. “That does not even sound like you and your situation!” you say nothing, supposing Ondolemar is as oblivious as always. “Come now, he described Fevkyn as a nobleman!”

“Fevkyn?” you say, stopping on a dime. “I don’t care about him; I haven’t for awhile.”

“Oh! Really, oh- I just- Well, I mean, he _was_ your fiancee, no?”

“He was never my fiancee,” you state flatly. “He never had the nerve to tell me how he felt. I can’t even be mad at him; I knew better. I just wanted to be in love so badly that I imagines commitment where I knew there was none…”

“Well here is my prediction, and I know it to be true,” he says, “Someday you will be very in love with someone very committed to you. I know it.”

“Thank you sir,” you say, holding the book tighter to your chest.

Ondolemar perks up, detecting music and dancing. There was a moment he hoped to distract you with it, until he recognized that dreaded song. He had long given up hope it would cease following him, but that didn’t mean it didn’t foul his mood.“Why is that stupid song so popular? It rhymes mer with -mar for heaven’s sake.”

“I think people want to believe the war is really over, or warn that it’s not,” you reply. Coming upon the fabric stall you say, “Hello Miss Minet! Are you finished with my benefactor’s handkerchief?”

“Just finished the last letter!” she says as she brings it to you. It appears that you fell for the “free” personalization scam, but Ondolemar knows better. Rather than risk insulting the trader for taking something for free, Ondolemar holds up the cloth to the lantern to assess the work done.

On the corner, embroidered in elegant elven letters is the phrase “A Light So Perfect, It Can Not Be”. It’s as if you took the letters of his name and shook them until they spelled something kind, something tender. You read that name and discarded the cruelty inherent in it for something proper and loving. His fingers trace the letters over and over, his smile softer each time.

“I’m sorry sir! I didn’t mean to offend you!” you say when you see a tear roll down his cheek.

“No, it’s- it’s perfect… Thank you for this,” he replies, shaking away the emotion and reaching for a handful of coins in his pocket, though no money could account for such a precious object.

“I’m glad you like it,” you say brightly.

“I’m glad I have you.” You bask in each other’s gaze until the merchant clears her throat. Ondolemar continues, “Tomorrow we can explore this bazaar more thoroughly, but for now we should relax. Today’s journey was very long.”

“I can’t wait for tomorrow night!”

“Yes, yes, I’m certain you’re looking forward to games and pie-”

“There’s pie?” you say as you follow him through the door of the inn. “Oh, can’t we stay out a little longer, tonight?”

“I promise you it will be better when you’re rested. Besides, I wanted to show you a little trick I have been working on.”

Normally a man sitting you on the bed and locking you into in a room would be a red flag, but Ondolemar would never hurt you. You remain relaxed as he digs through his trunk, staring out the window to watch the night market. Finally he produces the scroll Runil gave him so he may check the exact wording. His lips form the daedric pact, and reality shift to allow the creature to step into the world.

“Bow before Kill-Gore!”

“It’s so cute?!” you say, pointing to the tiny bunny hopping around.

“I am not cute! I am Kill-Gore!” it protests in a voice no louder than a squeaking mouse.

“It is so adorable!” you squeal. “Can I pick it up?

“Of course!” Ondolemar says with a smile.

“No! Don’t pick me up! I am not to be picked up! Noooo…!”

Ondolemar interrupts it, “I am normally very, very opposed to trafficking with daedra, as you know. However, I have made an exception for Kill-Gore because the summoning pains it so.”

“Kill-Gore is not to be cuddled!” he says as you pull it into your chest. “No! I am the usurper of Mehrunes Dagon! Fear me!”

“He’s so soft!” you say, petting his little head. “Hmm… usurper… I wonder if Mr. Bunny works for Boethiah and tried to double-cross Mehrunes Dagon.”

“I am not Mr. Bunny! Do not call me Mr. Bunny!”

Ondolemar chuckles. “If we are alone and you would like to see ‘Mr. Bunny’, please do not hesitate to ask. He trivial to summon, easy keep under my control, and quite amusing.”

“Yes you are,” you say in a baby voice while scritching Mr. Bunny’s behind the ears. Surprisingly, that quiets it down.

He goes on, “In addition, when we are are alone you may call me Ondolemar, if it pleases your discretion.”

“Ondolemar…” you say, rock the rabbit like a baby. “You can call me by name whenever you see fit.”

“Your pretty name, finally put to good use,” he replies. His heart stops when he realizes how bold that was; time stops as he waits for your offense.

“Oh, Ondolemar, you’re going to make me think I am far above my station!” you say with a nervous wave of your hand.

“I try.”

“ _Is he flirting with me?!”_

You don’t feel confident enough to ask that, but that night you ask just about anything else, from his favorite bread, to his worst subject in school. Little secrets are swapped and embarrassing stories are finally released from their dark hiding places. You wake slumped over each other, and after breakfast begin to chat endlessly once again, saying the other’s name at every chance.

You’re so content in that privacy that if Ondolemar hadn’t needed to post his letters, the two of you never would have left the room at all. Back in the crowds you two kept your eyes forward, your faces neutral, and your hearts weighed down with reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally earned that explicit rating yeehaw


	16. Jazan the Magnificent

That morning, when Ondolemar climbed into the front seat of the cart on your left, you thought about correcting him. A servant always sits on their employer’s left; only a spouse or an equal should sit on a High Justiciar’s right. But then, you don’t really want to spoil the feeling either. You assume at any moment, he’ll discover the indiscretion and demand you swap places. At least before the bridge, or the gate, or customs, or at least before you were in the city proper.

When you see the Thalmor Embassy, with its polished marble walls and ornate bars on the windows, you’re certain he will push you out of the cart, but he holds the reigns lax, disinterested in the hard stares from the guards. He guides the horses into the detached stable a motions for Sirilowne to pull up beside him

Once the cart stops, you hop out to retrieve Ondolemar’s luggage. Before you can even pull the trunk out of the cart, two Altmeri servants jostle you aside and whisk it away. Three pairs in all arrive to collect luggage, leaving nothing for you to carry but your own parcel. For a moment, one glorious moment, you feel you’re being treated as the highly-esteemed valet you were, instead of the lowly maid-of-all-work most people assumed you to be. You follow behind Ondolemar excitedly, but when you try to enter embassy, the guards cross their spears, giving you a quiet start.

You try to step forward anyways, and the one on the left informs you: “You’re not coming in.”

“Oh! I’m with-”

“You’re not coming in.”

Ondolemar backtracks to the front door and asks, “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing, sir,” the guard says.

“He says I can’t come in,” you reply over his shoulder.

The guard scoffs, “Who asked you?”

“I did,” Ondolemar says indignantly before addressing you, “It is simply a security concern. I am certain I can petition for your invitation. Wait here, and I will return for you.”

Once he disappears, the guards shove you back, forcing you to stand in the noon sun. A full hour passes, and what little hope you had withers in the heat. A messenger suddenly opens the front door and reads an order stating you were to be chased away from the property as soon as you receive your stipend. She held it with a cocky smile that gave you a bad feeling run off without taking it, much to their enjoyment.

Once you exit the Elven Gardens and you get turned around quickly. You’re in a city fives times the size of Markarth, maybe more, yet none of the archways had the same unique character. The streets are thick with people calling out to friends, jockeying for a line at the meat counter, gossiping while smoking a pipe. From that, you learn you’re in the Market District, which has all the shops and alcohol you will need to drown your sorrows, if you can find a suitable place to stay.

Lest you repeat the Mux incident, you begin a tour of the shops to gather information. The alchemist recommends the Silvermoon Inn, and, to get the hell out of his shop if you aren’t going to buy anything. Neither the smith nor the haberdasher would not let you in the door, and the cobbler was out to lunch.

When you open the bookstore door, you tell yourself to take in the sight quickly before she throws you out too. It’s beautifully chaotic; shelves packed with books of every size and shape, obscured by a floor filled with tall stacks and every other surface being covered in pamphlets. You had no idea there was this many things to read in Tamriel, and it’s a moment of pure magic.

“Hello!” the frizzy haired woman calls out from behind the counter.

You dare have some hope, and reply politely, “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“Ma’am! I love it! The last person to call me a lady made sure to say crazy first! This must be your first day in the city so I better introduce myself. I’m Ipsa,” she says, holding her hand out for a shake, which you return “As you can imagine, I own Ipsa’s Bookshop. Now what can I do you for- Well shit! I guess I should ask for your name first! That would help!” she says, slapping the desk with a wheezing laugh.

You no sooner tell her than she’s off rambling again: “If you’re looking for something specific, you better tell me so we can both start looking through this mess. I’m always telling Arnis we have to clean up this place, and we do!… for five minutes. Then we find something interesting, forget all about organizing, then the next day we get more books. It’s endless! So what’re you looking for again? Again! Haha! Like I’ve even let you get a word in edgewise that’s me!”

“Well, if you would happen to have a suggestion for a decent bed-”

“Silvermoon Inn, for sure. No louse there, bugs or otherwise. They foods kinda eh but lemme tell you, they’ve got the best security in the whole city. He’s so fine you’ll _want_ there to be a fight, just so you can see him in action. Oh Kynareth! Send me winds to cool this fire I have from talking about Jazan,” she says as she fans herself.

“I can hear you, you know!” a male voice says from upstairs.

“Ah relax Arnie! You know you’re the only man for me,” she shouts to the ceiling.

“I love you,” he says in the genuine affection and exhaustion that comes with twenty years of marriage.

“Yeah, yeah!” Ispa replies jokingly. Barely lowering her voice, she says, “So books. You want one? How about this one?” she says, pulling the top book from the pile nearest to her, “ _Mace Etiquette_? It’s witty; it’s constructive; it’s practically a classic!”

“Oh, thank you, but actually, I’m looking for a book uh- it’s called _The Falmer, Their Culture, and The Tale of Their Only Surviving Offspring_. Volume four, if you can, please.”

She claps and laughs again, “Now here’s a woman that knows literature. That’s me and the girls favorite! We have a whole book club about it and everything, to discuss the uh-the themes and you know.” You nod, knowing exactly what she means. “If you’re here on Middas, you should join us for an official Falmer Anthropological Preservation Society meeting. We pay for a private room so we can really get into the finer _points,_ if you know what I mean.” she saying, motioning to the tops of her ears.

“Talk about what now?” says the tan Bosmer. He leans against the bottom of the stairwell, arms folded, smile small but confident.

Her husband is enjoying your discomfort too much, so Ispa interjects, “Should I tell her about you andyour little friends’ club? Hmm? Very interesting though, I hear you are more focused on the newer things than the finer points.”

“What’s the club?” you ask.

Arnis quickly changes the subject, “I’m going to the baker’s. Need anything?”

“Could you get some milk for those muffins?” she asks as he begins walking toward the door.

When he walked passed Ispa, she smacks his ass sharply and Arnis immediately whirls around,holding his backside. He’s flushed, but pleased and replies. “Sure, bii-ba.”

“Love you, babe,” she says with a wink.

“I love you too,” he replies warmly before going out the door.

When the door closes, Ispa remarks, “I hate to see him go, but I love to watch him walk away...”

“You’re very lucky!”

“Don’t I know it! I hit the jackpot with that one, and it’s only getting better with time. Oh Kynareth whew! Oh yeah! Your book! Now, you’re in luck because if there’s one book I can find in this store it is Volume Four of that wonderful series.”

“Is it that good?” you ask as she marches over to a shelf.

“Oh hun, you’re in for a treat. You’re gonna wanna lock the doors and dim the light when you read this one, for sure… Hey! When you’re done, you should come down to the tavern and tell all the girls what you think. Tonight is an unofficial FAPS meeting but we have fun and I promise, no spoilers. Just drinks, crappy food, gossip, gals, and _Jazan_.”

“Jazan?”

She raises her thick eyebrows a few times as she explains, “Jazan the Magnificent, one of the greatest conjurors of this era and the last. During the Oblivion Crisis, he destroyed everything that came out of an Oblivion gate for three days and three nights until everyone on the island could evacuate.

“And, he’s gorgeous, even for an elf. I think he says he’s a high elf? But between you, me, and the fence post, I think he’s definitely got some Ayleid in him. I mean, who’s ever heard of any elf with indigo hair? Chips thinks it’s a spell, but I don’t know. You make your own decisions when you see him and tell me what you think- Ah! Here I am, chatting away again! It’s a wonder I ever sell anything!”

It’s another hour before you can actually purchase the book and one more to finally leave the shop, though each is well-spent.Luckily, The Silvermoon Inn is nearby and they have a place available for a fair price. Your room is suitably clean, and there are no trapdoors to be found, thank Mara.

Being this alone is extraordinarily rare… You suppose you should make the most of your of this time and multi-task. Since the women would not meet for another hour, you decideto read your new book and do what you couldn’t when you usually read it, stone-faced, inches from your benefactor.

* * *

Ondolemar locks his bedroom door with an exhausted sigh. Four hours withstanding bullshit. Utter, civilized, bullshit. He didn’t even succeed in persuading Ambassador Kry’thyne to allow you into the embassy. No, the man wouldn’t even hear it.Ondolemar would’ve seized him by the neck and demanded reconsideration, if he didn’t know that would endanger you further.

His new promise, to treat you as well as a wife, already ruined.He tears off the amulet and throws it on the nightstand in frustration at himself,then glances at it again. You carried it relatively recently, and for a week no less.That glass is the sort of object that picks up on a person’s energy... He clasps the charm and pictures you in his mind’s eye, especially that smile he missed. The signal is faint, but he can sense you are still alive and in the Imperial City, a small relief.

A knock interrupts his experiment. After dropping the amulet on the table, Ondolemar rushes to the door and opens it to find a servant with a tray of fresh towels.

“Dinner is at eight, sir,” the servant says, offering up the tray.

“Yes, thank you,” Ondolemar says, taking it from him, “Please inform the staff that I am not to be disturbed any time before then.”

“Yes sir,” he answers with a small bow before departing. He watches the servant dip into the servants’ hall and hatches a plot right then and there. Once the door is locked, Ondolemar starts on his plan to ensure you’re safety.

First, he will need a disguise; leaving before dinner would insult the ambassador, who by nature, cannot take slights at all. You wrapped Ondolemar’s fine jewelry in rags, one of which is a pair of brown pants with a hole in the inseam. Hastily sewing up the hole takes the better part of an hour, but he couldn’t get away with wearing a pair of white linen pants the same way he can with a white linen shirt.

Without suitable shoes for his disguise, he’ll have to go barefoot, a thought that disgusts him, though he had no other choice but to bear it. You could be out there, alone, scared. He barely has the time to tie a long rag around his waist as a sash, or the patience to dirty his face with charcoal.

The less he has to rely on an illusion spell to conceal himself, the better, for even his strongest concealment spell left a familiar glimmer in his eye when he checks himself in the mirror. He rubs some of the dirt through his hair as he fixes it into a loose bun, which helps, but it will be best to stay out of sight if he can. The necklace looks too nice for someone this rough, so he stuffs it on his pocket before phase two of his mission starts.

Dinner is now just over two hours away, so most of the servants are packed into the kitchen and dining room. Once the hall is clear of guards, Ondolemar slips out of his room and into the servants’ passage undetected.He gets lost in the darkness at first, but his eyes adjust and he’s able to orient himself. Luckily the passage ten yards away from the embassy, in the storeroom behind the stables, making it easier for him to sneak passed the guards and onto the Market District.

His magic leads him to the Silvermoon Inn; he can practically see you through the stone wall, sitting at a table, talking animatedly. Ondolemar circles to the side window and peers in to scope out the situation. The women you’re sitting with seem fairly well-to-do,and nothing inside seems overtly out-of-place. Still scarred from the incident at The Wild Hunt, Ondolemar watches for a long moment, just to be sure you were in a safe place, surrounded by good people, until he’s snatches and spun around

“Jazan,” he spits in immediate recognition.

“Ondolemar,” Jazan replies, green eyes sparkling with mischief. “You look surprised, as if you thought that novice disguise spell would actually work. I see you’re still a one-trick pony.”

“I see you’re still an arrogant bastard,” Ondolemar says as he writhes to get out of Jazan’s grip.

His rival responds by soundly punching him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of Ondolemar. Gasping for air, he’s now easy to drag around the corner and jostle into the inn.

“I caught this lowlife peeking in the window!” Jazan announces to everyone in the inn, still holding Ondolemar by the collar.

The people look up, but no one, not even you, recognizes the tramp.

“Let me guess,” the barkeep says sarcastically, “you’re hungry and you were just waiting for someone to leave so you could ask for scraps.”

The risk of being flogged by the city guard for peeping, and then by the ambassador for sneaking out, is very, very real. Ondolemar nods vigorously, lying, “Please sir… my stomach is in knots.”

Before the barkeep can say anything, you pipe up, “I’ll pay for his bread!”

“Get this creep out of here,” the bartender barks at Jazan.

“No, no, I could never deny someone’s charity,” Jazan says with a wave of his hand. “I’ll ensure he behaves.”

Ondolemar wonders what Jazan’s real angle is, because it sure as hell isn’t charity or grave.Not that he had any choice except to go along with the rouse and sit down at the bar. You pay for his bread, but hurry away, apparently nervous to hang around this unknown vagabond.

Jazan smiles smartly at Ondolemar before he follows you back to the long table so he can sit at the head. From that chair he can keep an eye on the bar, and watch his enemy squirm.

Jazan says to you “What were you saying about you benefactor…? What was his name again? Ondolemar?”

“Don’t remind me of that name,” you say miserably, “I’d need a whole bottle if I talked about him any more.”

“I’d be happy to oblige you,” Jazan says, picking up the wine bottle to pour some into your glass.

“The whole trip is a farce for me,” you say sadly, “He’ll never be able to get me to Alinor if he can’t even get me into the embassy. Oh, and then what will I do? I will be as far from home as I can be, left to fend for myself!”

“I pray, in that case, that you write to me,” Jazan says, “I am not so poor or insignificant as to send my servants adrift.”

Ondolemar isn’t sure if he’s more crushed by your scathing review, the flirting, or the way you buy all of this. After thinking a moment, you add, “But he can bea very nice man. I think he’s just… in a bad position.”

He’d rather end on that note then wait for you to change your mind again. Ondolemar forces down the last bite of bread, nods to the barkeep, and then pushes out his chair so he can leave now. Jazan is determined to settle this now, and follows the justiciar out whispering daedric words. Ondolemar cannot risk being caught and whirls around on his heels, delivering a smack so hard, Jazan loses vision for a moment.

“This isn’t over,” Ondolemar says before he absconds back to the embassy to clean up and play civilization again.

* * *

You were stunned when Jazan asked you to attend the fashionable hour promenade with him. At four o clock every afternnon the gentlefolk of the city redress and step out to socialize with their friends.You only have one dress, andit’sunworthy of such an event, but you agreed because surely he must have already known that.

As such, you hopedyour escort would wear something understated, but you forgot this is Jazan the Magnificent. The man is dressed so resplendently that your homespun dress looks even cruder than usual. You don’t even have gloves while he hasgold rings and a jeweled diadem to complement his stylish robes.

You could look passed all of it and enjoy yourself if not for his priestly stole, a long thin cloth inscribed with glowing Oblivion runes that hangs around his neck. You persuaded him to change, but Jazan returned wearing an apron-like banner on his waist, also inscribed with glowing, Oblivion runes.

Defeated, you took his arm and stepped out, quickly regaining your enthusiasm. Most people seem bemused, and you know you’re just his sweetheart of the week, but the idea of being seen with someone so highly ranked!

You’re slow to recognize that he’s ledyou to the Elven Gardens, and the realization makes you nervous. Just as Jazan tries to turn onto the road that houses the Thalmor Embassy, yougrab him by the arm and say, “Please, sir! This could be trouble. The Thalmor hate anyone who traffics with daedra.”

Your escort laughs heartily. “Oh, hun,” he says, patting you on the head a few times before explaining, “I’m what they call ‘a grey area’. I saved _thousands_ lives during the Oblivion Crisis. Anyone from Errinorne Isle that lived, including Ambassador Kry’thyne, owes their life to _me_. I’m untouchable, watch.”

And with that he saunters on, you now trying to hide behind his arm.

Ondolemar had been waiting outside for the ambassador to join him for promenade when he spots Jazan coming onto the avenue, you on his arm. The pair do not even make it midway down the street before Ondolemar marches out to his enemy and shouts, “Jazan! I challenge you to a duel!” as rips off his glove and throws it to the ground.

Jazan nods once and you shrink from his side. Reality does not crackle or shift as it does with Kill Gore. No, this horrible beast steps into Mundus silently. It’s so frightening, you run all the way back to the Silvermoon Inn out of fear of becoming involved with some foul daedric plot.

Ambassador Kry’thyne rushes out and barks, “High Justiciar, you are not permitted to duel _anyone_ for any reason! Relinquish your challenge at once or relinquish your post!”

Jazan mouths “coward” with a cocky smile, but Ondolemar will not be goaded. He picks up his gloves, collects his emotions, turns to the ambassador and states evenly, “So right you are, Ambassador. I should have never let my temper get so out-of-hand, nay out-of-pocket. I am glad you prevented me from wasting my honor.”

Just to spite Jazan Ondolemar waves casually, banishing the strange creature with apparent ease, despite such a feat depleting his mana for the day. The look on Jazan’s face was well worth it, especially when Jazan realizes you’ve fled his side.

Ondolemar turns to his fellow Thalmor and says politely, “Are you ready, Ambassador?”

“No, not quite yet,” he reports, having not had time to properly fasten his shoes before intervening the fight. “I pray you will stay cordial?”

“Of course,” Ondolemar says with a small bow.

Kry’thyne feels nervous about the situation, but says “I will be just a moment”before retreating inside.

Remaining still and calm, Ondolemar explains things to his enemy, “Jazan, let me make something perfectly clear: I would sooner sell my soul to Molag Bal for piss than allow you to use my servant’s heart as a pawn in our feud. If I catch you doing it again, I won’t even use magic; I will simply beat you to death, starting with the feet and working my way up until I can use Jazan-paste in my hair, understood?”

Jazan smirks, thinks up a lie and says, “Hmph. Poor thing said she was desperate for someone to treat her kindly. I suppose it’s true. You are just like your father.”

The ambassador opens the door again, signaling another hiatus in this decades-old grudge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jazan is my friend Kaloo's WoW blood elf OC. I don't know if I subconsciously wrote this rival part about Jazan, but he fit in perfectly and it was super cool that she let me borrow him. If you happen to see him around in the world of warcraft, say hi!


	17. Meeting Minds

Yet another promising titles yields nothing for Ondolemar’s search. He closes it and moves to replace it on the shelf when he spies something. A note has been left in the empty slot, folded neatly, but not sealed. He crouches down to peer through the space, but he already knows the sender is long gone. He takes the paper and stands before unfolding the parchment.

_Yokuda, Atmora, Akiviri And Antiquity Social Society_

“ _Peers with a new disposition”_

_Ispa’s Bookshop – 8 – tonight_

_(food served)_

He scrutinizes the note for hints that may explain the esoteric second line. It must have something to do with humans, since all humans theoretically originated from one of those continents or “antiquity”. They call that “native to Tamriel”, “antiquity” being a term only elves use. That explains the peers, but not “with a new dispotion”

“ _Disposition sometimes means preference… a preference to… the new? Or did it mean humans? No that can’t be it; no one here knows how I feel about her because I haven’t seen her since we arrived… Humans, human and new. Human’s… new aedrea! As in Talos?!”_

Of course! This is a social circle of elves that secretly worship Talos! Some loyal citizen, not trusting the Thalmor Embassy or the city government slipped the note to him. He would attend this meeting and capture these traitorous bastards!

“Good afternoon, sir,” you call out.

“You came!” he replies elatedly as he hurriedly pockets the letter.

“Yes of course!” you say, thinking, _“_ _I_ _ha_ _d_ _a choice?”_

It’s been days since he’s seen you and already he feels happier; his lips curl up before he can stop it. He clears his throat and goes on, “I looked all morning but unfortunately I only found five books.

“Only five?” you say sympathetically as you follow him to his table. “The Arcaneum’s library is huge! I’m surprised! …What are you looking for?”

“Information about the Snow Elves, as the survivors prefer to be called. It’s a shame that we have more information about the Maormer then such a gifted race of mages.”

“I didn’t realize you were interested in Snow Elves, sir,” you say as you arrive at his deck.

“Oh! I uh- I found these for you!” he says, having promised himself not to be so shy with you. “You can check out books on my behalf while you are here. Imagine you’ve run out of reading material. I can’t imagine there could be anymore volumes in that series you’re reading. This information is very sparse.”

“That’s very kind of you!” you say happily. “You found all these books just for me?”

“Well, you may only check out two at a time, but I wanted to produce a selection.”

“You’re very sweet to me,” you remark, and then cover your mouth. “Oh, perhaps that is not quite the right word.”

“I think it fitting,” he says. You gaze back with a sort of flustered terror that wilts his confidence to pursue the fluttering in his chest any further. He instead explains the merits of each book and lets you browse them before making your final selection.

When you put the second book aside you ask, “So sir, is there anything I can do for you before you must retire to the embassy?” Truthfully, your goal is to attend the FAPS meeting without chores interfering, but you suppose you should check on him too. “Any shopping need done.”

“No, I’m afraid not. It’s far too early in our stay to fetch supplies and the staff at the embassy has been taking care of my raiment, although I must say they do a very poor job of maintaining my silver,” he says, gesturing to his belt.

“I’m so glad you said something,” you reply in relief, already shaking off the polishing cloth you keep in your apron, “They didn’t even work out all of the polish. Really, some people are just lazy!”

Before he can even suggest taking off his belt, you grab him by the Thalmor buckle and pull him close. Without a hint of discomposure, you begin rubbing the buckle, your face so, so close to…

“ _Think of cold! Think of cold!”_ he pleads with himself, “ _Icy Skyrim winters, snow, cold wind and soggy boots and icicles and…”_ and whatever else he could think up to keep his manhood in check. His concentration is perfect until he spots someone peering around the corner of a bookcase. She quickly hurries away, ensuring that all of the Arcaneum will have gossip with their drinks tonight.

“There!” you say proudly, folding up the rag as you stand.

“I’m glad you are satisfied,” he says. _“Because I won’t be for a very, very long time.”_

* * *

Using the small shop window as a mirror, Ondolemar primps himself before knocking on the door to Ispa’s Bookshop. He used the sting operation as an excuse to not wear pants, opting for his blue robes and slippers for the time being.

He’s greeted by a very quiet Dunmer who greets him. “Come in sir. I’m Vyrshk. Everyone is upstairs already.”

“Is this bookshop yours, sir?” Ondolemar says as he takes the first step.

“No, sir. I’m training to be a valet, sir. This bookshop belongs to Arnis’ wife, Ispa,” he explains as he leads Ondolemar up the stairs.

The group seated at the dining room table pauses their conversation when Ondolemar enters. Arnis breaks the silence, offering Ondolemar tea and a seat. He’s happy to introduce himself and everyone follows suit.

After J’eki finishes the young Altmer, “Do you remember me?”

“Yes, you’re Byff, the ambassador’s secretary,” Ondolemar replies, finally conceding the stealth angle was a lost cause.

“If everyone is here,” Drigoster, the broad-shoulder Dunmer says, “then we should begin.”

“Aye,” Arnis says as he stands. “Because we have a new member, let me reiterate the rules.

“One: What’s discussed here stays within these walls. It would be disrespect to Seryza’s soundproofing spellwork to do otherwise. Two: No one shall say anything so grave that authorities would need to be called. Let us not put Byff, or Ondolemar, in a difficult position.”

Everyone replies “Here, here!” and Arnis sits before he continues, “Ondolemar, since you are the newest member, you must open the meeting with your confession.”

Even _p_ _retending_ to worship Talos is expressly prohibited. With another Thalmor agent present, Ondolemar will be dead the moment he speaks. He looks to the secretary and replies, “Why don’t you go first, Byff?”

“You have to go first. We all did,” Byff retorts. “You can do it. Reveal your true emotion.”

“I’m… not in a position to say,” Ondolemar says, hoping that is not close enough to an outright admission to get him in trouble.

“You must!”

“Don’t worry!”

“Take your time!” the club calls out, but their new member is frozen.

Seryza stands and states, “I’ll go first.”

“Have a mind for tradition!” Drigoster says indignantly.

“I understand, Ondolemar,” Seryza says gently, “I used to be just like you, but now, I have no fear. Everyone knows and I’m happy they do,” she says. She takes a deep breath and then states, “I’ll admit it right now.”

This was it! She is really going to confess to heresy! Ondolemar would have her executed by the week’s end, and the bonus by the end of the month.

“...I love humans! They’re cute little ears! Their soft bodies! Their reckless souls! The way they get _so_ emotional about _everything!_ Every time I sleep next to my wife, I realize how lucky I am to share the few years she has. I love the little lines around her eyes, how she says ‘you know…’, how she lives for today and not in regret. I, Seryza, love a human and I am not afraid to say it!”

Ondolemar is so confused he’s stunned still and stupid for a full moment. The other members clap respectfully and she takes her seat.

Byff twirls a lock of hair around his finger and asks, “So what about you, High Justiciar? I’ve heard all about you and-”

“Rumors,” Ondolemar huffs.

Drigoster states plainly, “The librarian at the Arcaneum informed me that you were ‘getting your belt polished’ in the middle of the Alteration section.”

The group leans in, patiently waiting to hear him dismiss _that_.

“That is quite literally what she was doing,” Ondolemar replies indignantly.

“The same librarian also mentioned you spent all morning searching for books for her,” Drigoster adds, his tone hinting that he held an arsenal of pointed statements.

Byff interjects, “Don’t worry, High Justiciar. I know how it is, being Thalmor and all, but you can tell us how much you love her. We won’t breathe a word of it! Really! Everyone is great.”

“This is ridiculous,” Ondolemar says, even if he’s flushed to the tip of his ears.

“J’eki agrees,” J’eki says with a flick of his tail. “Love is a strong term for what is little more than dry wood sleeping next fire.”

Ondolemar snaps, “Oh what do you know about our relationship, really!” before he realizes how he’s been duped into half-confessing.

Arnis encourages him, “It must feel good to finally get it off your chest. Imagine how light you will feel when you tell her.”

“How can I tell her anything when she’s not in a position to refuse?” he says.

“Actually, uh-” Vyrshk starts, but he stops himself and looks at his hands.

“Speak, speak,” J’ek says gently.

“Uh… Well, right now, sir, the Imperial City is experiencing a shortage of domestic work right now. That’s why my mother sent me here to learn the trade. Someone who can read and write two languages is in very high demand. She could get a very good job in the city, so this would be the perfect place to refuse, because she could find work,” Vyrshk explains. “You did say the book she checked out was in Alrmeri, right uncle?”

Drigoster nods bur Ondolemar is having none of it. He snaps out at the others, “What about the rest of you?! Have you all confessed to your love? No, of course not, or you wouldn’t be having these meetings.”

“I’m married,” Arnis replies with an amused smiles.

“So am I!” Seryza adds.

“What about you?” Ondolemar says, pointing to the professor.

Drigoster points to himself, shocked. “Me!?”

“Yes, you. Who do you love?”

“A beautiful Redguard woman named Senicky,” he replies a little too quickly.

“You’re full of it,” Ondolemar retorts, “You used the first question to buy time to conceive a lie.”

“I should be taking notes!” Byff remarks, in awe of the justiciar’s skills in deduction.

“In fact,” Ondolemar continues, “I know for a fact Senicky is in association with the both. A lie closer to the truth is easier to tell.”

“That’s a lot of conjecture!” Drigoster shouts, although his short temper says it all.

“You really are a prodigy!” Byff says in awe. “I wish I could take notes!”

Ondolemar mutters, “University folk.”

Drigoster whips around so fast the tassel on his tam changes sides. “I worked for my doctorate!”

“We know,” many chime in.

J’eki, enjoying the spectacle thoroughly, slides Ondolemar a piece of paper that reads “Gynela”. Drigoster wanted to slap him silly but it was too late; Ondolemar had read and scorched the paper.

“I see… The misdirection had a motive,” Ondolemar says as he rubs the ashes from his fingers. “Hiding a betrayal.”

“I’m what now?” Drigoster asks.

“You love Ispa,” he states plainly.

J’eki jumps up, tail bristling while he swears he didn’t write that and Byff begins clapping.

Arnis shouts, “Please! This shop is very flammable!” although it seems like Drigoster is planning to simply beat his face in.

“So,” Seryza states lazily, “you would rather beat the shit out of J’eki than admit you and Gynela have a thing going? Or is it just that you don’t want to lose this dick measuring contest.”

They take their seats again and Arnis thanks the gods there is at least one woman to command some sense into emotional men.

“Fine,” Drigoster says, as he pulls up his seat. “I love Gynela. Everyone knows it, so I don’t see why I had to say it.”

“ _Anything to keep my secret to myself,”_ Ondolemar muses.

The Khajiit changes the topic. “J’eki is tired of seeing Jazan.”

“I can’t bring myself to hate him…” Vyrshk admits.

“Everybody in the city loves him, even though he did absolutely nothing in Cyrodiil during the Oblivion Crisis,” Seryza mumbles.

“And what he did do is dubious at best,” Ondolemar says.

“Really?” Byff replies, “The ambassador is convinced he’s the real deal.”

Ondolemar rolls his eyes. “Tell me Byff, how would one hold off an Oblivion portal for two days and two nights? He maintains he did not enter it.”

“Well,” Arnis interrupts politely, “It is an open secret that he made a deal with Mehrunes Dagon, reneging on his deal with Mephala.”

“And yet FAPS loves him…” Byff says dejectedly.

“And I can’t arrest him,” Ondolemar adds.

Drigoster sits up and says with determination. “You know what? Tonight will be the night I outwit him and get Gynela’s attention!”

“Having it all the time with Gynela at the university is not enough?” J’eki asks smartly.

“This would be different though. If- If she chose to interact with me during her free time it would be… special,” he finishes sheepishly.

“Let’s make a plan to get you close to her,” Ondolemar says, and the group sets about plotting ways to overpower Jazan’s charisma, good looks, and beautiful smile.

* * *

You are in _paradise!_ Wine, food, friendly ladies, and gossiping about elves. The members have the juiciest gossip and the best advice, like how elves love ear rubs. After hearing a particularly raunchy rumor, you feel confident enough to ask, “Is it true that Altmer don’t really… like sex, usually?”

“Not in my experience!” Janessa says.

“Neither in mine,” Nir, the only other servant, adds.

“Or mine,” Ispa says. When her sister gives her a look she says, “What? It was before Arnie’s time.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?” Nir asks.

“Are you think of Tovas?” Janessa asks, “He’s a Wood Elf, you know.”

“Well shit!” Ispa says and they both burst into laughter.

After they calm themselves Gynela speaks, “Sex is mentioned fifty-seven times over all the texts the university has concerning the pre-Dwemer Snow Elves. That reminds me! My friend told me the High Justiciar of Skyrim was in the library looking for books about Snow Elves, for you.”

“Oh, uh, yes,” you admit shyly, “He must have seen me reading _The Falmer, Their Culture, and The Tale of Their Only Surviving Offspring._ Thank goodness he doesn’t know what it’s really about.”

“So when is the wedding?” Senicky jokes.

“Oh,” you answer sullenly. “I don’t believe they’re going to set the date until we reach Summerset- I mean, Alinor.”

“You’re engaged?!” Janessa gasps excitedly, but Ispa smacks her arm lightly.

“No, not me. The High Justiciar is engaged to Lady Aenydi Fy’drasra. Her family owns to Royal Archive…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Janessa assures you, “Plenty of Altmer get engaged and never make it home. I would know!”

Nir says, “My boy Byff told me that Aenydi has been in elevensies with Vosstisia for over a decade. Even if he does get married, you’ll be fine!”

“Elevensies?” you ask.

Senicky answers, ”Elevensies means one them is married and the other spouse knows about the arrangement. It’s an unusual arrangement, but more commonplace than most people would guess.”

“If you rearrange all the ones in several elevens, who can tell which belongs to who?” Gynela elaborates.

“I suppose,” you say, wondering if Ondolemar would ever consider something like that…

Janessa adds, “Seryza told me when the spouses have children, the lovers often consider the child their own in a way, and will arrange apprenticeships, and recommendations on their behalf.”

“I wonder if that’s how Ondolemar landed someone so far above his status,” Nir muses.

Noting how despondent you’ve become, Senicky, “It’s not over until the ink dries on the paper. Don’t give up hope.”

“I don’t think Mara would approve…” you mutter.

“She doesn’t approve of keeping love in the dark either.”

“And really,” Janessa says, “How long can you hide such a big secret before it drives you mad?”

“You should tell him tonight, after the meeting,” Gynela suggests softly.

“How about a two-for-one?” Ispa says, pointing to the assistant, “You both confess to your employers. Don’t worry about the money. I’ll find good work for the both of you if it comes to that, which it won’t.”

Gynela is determined to tell him when she is good and ready, so she changes the subject, “I just remembered something! Does anyone remember that vagrant Jazan caught peeping in the window? He was using an illusion spell and I could see right through it, but I didn’t recognize him until today. It was Ondolemar, I swear!”

Flustered by the implication, you try to redirect the remark, “When today did you meet him?”

“I walked in on you polishing his belt buckle,” she says with a sly smile.

The women begin howling with laughter. You retort weakly, “The servant who did it before left polish on it!”

“Sure, sure,” Ispa says with a wave of her hand.

“Why do you think he let you do that?” Senicky asks. “It is rather… provocative.”

“I don’t know,” you answer with a shrug.

“I Don’t Know is not taking petitions today, you’ll have to come up with your own excuse,” she replies, quoting her father.

Nir throws back her head and shouts, “Let’s just get to the _point!_ You wanna fuck him and he wants to fuck you so just _do it!_ Life is too short and heartweed is too plentiful for all this! Next time you see him just grab him by the lapel and kiss him. I guarantee he will be putty in your hands.” The sisters laugh, but Nir is completely serious: “You too, Gynela! All this talking, for what?”

“I can’t just grab a person and kiss them!” Gynela protests. You nod vigorously in agreement.

“Pft, fine, add some steps,” she says, “Get him alone and talk really quietly. When he leans in to listen, that’s your cue. You reach up and trace the shape of his ear, very lightly, the slower the better. Then, when he’s giving you that wide-eyed ‘does-that-mean-what-I-think-it-means’ look, grab him by the lapel and honey, he will do the rest.”

“You have to make the first move,” Ispa explains, “Elves are prepared to hold in their emotions for years. No one wants to made to look like a fool, or to impose on their love, so they’ll suffer in silence for a decade. I did not wait that long and neither should you! Trust me, when you start having sex you’ll be made at yourself for waiting as long as you did!”

“I- I don’t know about that!” you mutter, looking at your hands.

Senicky looks at her friend and says, “Gynela, what happens to a destruction mage who keeps his emotions tightly bound?”

“I imagine you mean the famous self-immolation of Arch-Mage Eisio… He loved his brother’s wife and never breathed a word of it to anyone. One day, the emotion could not stay inside any longer and he began to spontaneously burn. No one could put out the inferno, not until he finally yelled out his secret. Then the fireball died, but unfortunately, the words were a deathbed confession.”

“Actually,” Senicky says, “I was think of Hzul, the Dunmeri mage who tried to seal his emotions so tightly, his heart froze over and he died. He was cremated, but his heart was so ice cold that only the fires of Red Mountain could melt it.”

“These are very extreme cases,” Gynela states.

“Don’t act like these are one-off’s, Gyn,” Ispa warns, “I can think of two more: _A_ _Most_ _Messy Funeral_ and _One Long Evening_. I don’t need to remind you that Drigoster and Ondolemar are both destruction mages, so there is a real threat if their feelings go unnoticed.”

Nir remarks, “You’ve thought out everything that could go wrong if he doesn’t love you, but you’ve never thought about what could go wrong if he did.”

Janessa jumps up and shouts, “I hear my wife!”

“My lover is here,” Nir sings.

“And my dear Arnie! YAAAASS must’ve concluded early today, and so shall we. I declare this FAPS meeting closed.” Ispa says as she stands. “By the way, Senicky, you’re not off-the-hook about that stable hand.”

That prompts her to stand up and unlock the door. When it swings in, a small party of elves seem to be waiting by the door. Jazan makes his way into the room first, but you walk passed him and to Ondolemar. Just as you’re about to step out of the room, you trip on the threshold, but he rushes forward and catches you before you fall.

“Whoa!” Ondolemar says, hands nervously squeezing your sides. “Be careful.”

He holds you for a long moment before you find the mind right yourself. “Thank you sir.”

“Perhaps you would like some air?” he says.

“Yes, very much,” you reply, now that you realize you are faily drunk. Ondolemar leads you outside, glancing back to ensure you were still steady and following him.

“Uh, I have to-” you start.

“Very well,” Ondolemar says, thankful to have the time to go over his confession one more time. The more he thought about it, the more anxious he was, but… he needed to do this. He had lost control over the element of ice recently, meaning there was no part of his mind that didn’t ache and hurt for you. He reminds himself the same thing Drigoster told him: it is simply not healthy to hold it in.

After waiting for your return for ten minutes, Ondolemar glances down the alleyway to check on you. You’re already outside, peering into the inn window to spy on your friends.

“Peeping?” he teases.

You smile coyly, but let the remark go. “I’m watching Gynela and Drigoster. She and I have a lot in common so I’m trying to cheer her on from the sidelines.”

Ondolemar walks over to you and looks into the tavern too. “Drigoster is possibly the most oblivious man on Nirn. He claims his assistant doesn’t know how he feels, but he’s practically melting over her. How could she not know?”

You nod. “Honestly! It’s a shame he doesn’t notice how badly she wants to kiss him. He’s so shy he never see that look in her face.”

Ondolemar glances at your lips and then looks back at the inn, even if his mind is a million miles from that tableau.

“It’s a bit sad,” you go on. “They love each other so much and yet they can’t see to cross that line.”

“They will, in due time,” Ondolemar replies. “ _Just tell her! Just do it!”_

“Yes, when they’re ready. I think they already know how the other feels anyways,” you answer, fairly certain neither one of you is talking about Drigoster and Gynela anymore.

“It’ll be perfect,” he promises you.

“We should get back inside,” you say, supposing you don’t want Jazan to make an example of you. “So I want to ask my question!”

“Oh? What?”

“How are you?!” you ask cheerfully. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

His heart warms and soon his mind forgets about the pressure of confessing. It would come, in time, but not tonight when the conversation is so easy and your smile is so bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> Hey, did you know that TES has a TCG? it is the greatest tcg because it has a card called "Sheepish Dunmer" which is a Dunmer standing in a waist-high pond, pouting. He is summoned by the card Stolen Pants. It is the greatest thing ever. if you google it, you will not be disappointed.


	18. Panic at the Embassy

Byff stumbles out of the flophouse, gloves still in hand. If he gets a flogging for his uniform violation he’ll cry tears of relief, knowing the rumor is just that. His heart stopped cold when he heard it through the open window: “The Embassy is on fire and they’re all trapped inside.” followed by another person saying the same thing.

Nir follows him behind, still tying her apron and looking about for a friendly face. She finds you slumped against a house, sobbing and rushes ahead to join your side.

“Don’t worry; don’t worry,” she says evenly, “Fires happen, even in a house of powerful mages. I’m sure it’s already put out, nothing at all to cry about.”

“The front door is barred. Everyone is-!”

“No! Don’t say it and make it true!” Byff cries out. “Ondolemar is a spectacular destruction mage. I know he could quell any fire…” but the building is made of marble, even the library shelves. If it’s on fire enough to gather a crowd then it’s unlikely it’s a natural or accidental fire… “I _know_ he can ward anything.”

“What’s going on?” Jazan says, having only now caught up to you. “Is it true? Are they trapped inside?”

“We’re going to investigate,” Byff says resolutely, “Please, you must dry your tears until things are resolved. Follow me.”

Jazan tries to make you smile, and offers you his arm, but you’re too focused on getting into the Elven Gardens. Once through the gate, the chatter of the Market District fades and the roar of a fire grows louder by the moment. You pace quickens until you’re sprinting to the embassy, searching for Thalmor in the streets, helping the locals contain the fires. You tell yourself it’s a big perimeter- he might be anywhere-, but as you scan the crowd, you can’t find a single black hood among the group.

The shining, golden fire almost blinded you, but you can still see the bar thread through the handle. Both are wrought of ebony, so the doors can be pushed open only a very small amount. You only look away from the fire when your eyes fill with tears. Your voice quivers as you pray, “Oh Mara have mercy!”

The cobblestone road doesn’t stop the fire, only entices it. Despite twenty or so skilled mages, the circle of flames is spreading and at steady pace. Byff yells to Jazan over the din, “I’m going to help them! This fire is from Oblivion, so- so do something about it!”

Jazan knows creature from ten plains and can split smaller daedra souls, almost akin to binding, and this inferno is far beyond his reach. This is no mere mishandled candle, no this was Meridia’s purifying light, meant to melt one’s very identity.

Jazan only knows of one creature that could withstand this soul-purifying heat, but it will require him to burn a proper summoning circle into the ground before even attempting to summon it. When the burned scars fill blue light, his will reaches deep into Oblivion and force the terrible beast down into Nirn.

“I amMaul Gore!” it bellows as its wings unfolds. It tries to wrest its freedom from Jazan, but the conjuror forces the two-story tall creature to obey. It reaches down, grabs the ebony rod barring the door shut, and tears off the door from its moorings. Maul Gore wants to use the shrapnel to smash the mortals, but Jazan commands it to stillness while the victims escape. Most can rush out on their own, but some are leaning on each other, and the ambassador is being dragged out.

“Ondolemar!” you shout as he stumbles over. Once he sees your face, he practically collapses into your embrace.

“Fall back!” someone yells. Ondolemar stands suddenly and shoos you from the scene. The door had been some sort of seal, and now the cursed blaze was spreading rapidly, threatening to take the entire district.

Jazan knows he can’t summon anything more, but he’s not used the last of his strength yet. He finds Ondolemar ushering you behind a building and yells over the roar, “Ondolemar! Help me banish this fire!”

Ondolemar whirls around and shouts back, “We’re both exhausted!”

“I know, but we have to try!” Jazan yells. “If you can channel it, I can banish it.”

“Channel it?!” he shouts back as he walks to Jazan, “Are you crazy? That is Meridia’s purifying light. She can overpower any mortal!”

“I know! But you’re the best destruction mage around.”

“That’s because I’m the only one left!”

“This is no time to be a humble prick! I’ll pick up your slack. Just do it.”

“Ondolemar!” you call out, “You _are_ the best destruction mage! I know it ‘cause I’ve seen it! You’re talented, Ondolemar! I know you can do it!”

He can see the marks of drying tears on your face. He looks back to Jazan and shouts, “Okay!”

“Slow and steady now!”

He walks away from you, to the other side of the building so that you may not see if he falls to calamity. Ondolemar pulls the fire towards him like a spinner drawingin fibers from a pile of wool. Once he’s contained the fire into a thread, he feeds it Jazan, who banishes it to a pocket realm Meridia will not find. The fire is so white-hot that it could seerOndolemar’s will from his soul, his life from his body, but he refuses to falter, even if he knows he reached his limit long ago, and he’s tapping into his very longevity to protect you.

The mages containing the inferno move in closer the more Ondolemar and Jazan can take away. Though their collective force cannot spare much mana, the small patches of fire and coal left behind by the channeling are easy to extinguish with spells colder than a Skyrim winter. Ondolemar decides to take the flame in a checkerboard, and the other mages work with him to stomp out those patches of fire he leaves behind.

“You’re amazing!” you call out to him as you rush forward. His hands are trembling and you expect he’ll collapse any moment, but you can’t grab him while Meridia’s fire spools around his fingers.

Jazan shouts, “Just a bit more! Just a little more”

Ondolemar is exhausted, and yanks the last of the flames all at once. The inferno scorches Jazan’s eyebrows, but he manages to banish these flames without any more injury. The mages march in, step-by-step, until the entire flames are gone. No one relents until someone rakes through the rubble and ensures every coal has been put out. Satisfied, Jazan lies downs in the street and takes a nap.

Ondolemar did collapse, but you caught him and laid him on the ground gently. His nose is bleeding so you place his head in your lap, lest he inhale his own blood. Ondolemar murmurs something incomprehensible and nuzzles his head into your thighs. He’s clearly out of it, but he’s still alive so you can sigh a breath of relief.

You share what little mana you have with him and dab his forehead with your handkerchief to dry off the sweat. You peer around, looking for a healer, and find they’re all attending to person’s with burns, so you stay silent for now. A woman comes by with a ladle of water, and though Ondolemar is not awake to drink it, you can at least clean him up and put a cool cloth on his head.

“Hey you!” Gynela calls out as she rushes over. “Is Ondolemar alright?”

“He’s had better days, but I think he’ll be alright,” you say.

She kneels down next to him and replies happily, “I’ll take a look, just to be sure!”

She checks his eyes first, and Ondolemar groans in protest, “He’s certainly depleted, but not permanently damaged. That’s really quite impressive, and lucky. I can reverse something physical, but mental drain is very hard to treat.”

“Oh praise Mara!”

“I’m limited in what I can do for his body, though. His lungs are damaged and his hands are very badly injured. Healing the lungs is a very intense process, and I’ll need to use many wards to ensure I do more good than harm. The problem is, his hands may never heal correctly if I don’t reverse them now. They’re both very intricate processes, so if I want to fully regenerate one thing, I’ll use the last of my magic. What should I do?”

You remember Ondolemar’s recipe for his burn healing salve, a must for the budding destruction mage. He had a few burns that made your stomach turn, but the salve always saved him. You think you still remember the recipe, so you say, “Please heal his lungs. He can’t live if he can’t breathe.”

“I agree,” she says.

Ondolemar made the worst gasping noises when she began, and had a terrible, hacking cough when she was done. Once he was done hacking, he fell unconscious. He’s breathing seems easier, but you still furrow your brow with worry.

“How is he?” Drigoster asks as he walks over sipping a bitter, hastily prepared potion.

“He’ll pull through, but it may take a week,” she replies.

“Bah! Altmer heal fast and well. I give it five days,” he says, taking another swig. Having forgotten your name, he says to you, “Miss, I can take him to my home here in the gardens. My guest room is empty and the cook is trained in many styles, so I think Ondolemar will find it an agreeable arrangement.”

Gynela interjects, “I must insist: once Ondolemar is placed there, he should not move until he fully recovers.”

“I understand,” you say, “I’ll gather my belongings from the inn later. We can go now, if possible.”

“Gynny, would you mind returning this bottle to Celfinn?” Drigoster asks, handing her the empty potion bottle. She blushes furiously at her secret nickname, but obliges him regardless. Drigoster, oblivious as ever, casually asks you, “Could you possibly carry his mace for me? It would be a big help.”

Once you get it unhooked, you cradle it in your arms, which amuses him enough to forget about his own aches for the time being and carry Ondolemar away.

“It’s not too far,” Drigoster says lightly, more to reassure himself than you.

Vyrshk answers the door before you can knock and quickly leads everyone upstairs so he can open the guest room door. A stately couple who had been watching the mess from the parlor quickly follow behind, though they remain in the hall as Drigoster puts Ondolemar in bed.

“I want to do a full examination of him,” Drigoster explains. “I think for propriety’s sake-”

“I understand,” you say, quickly excusing yourself to the hall, much to his relief.

As soon as the door is closed, the Dunmer woman marches up to you and begins demanding answers. Anything you provide is insufficient, and she only grows more intense as time goes by.

“Good evening, Ashamanu!” Gynela calls out. “How are you this evening?”

Just as Ashamanu is about to redirect that question into one of her own, Drigoster opens the bedroom door and asks you, “Would you like to see him?”

“Yes!” you say. You excuse with a quick curtsy to the couple, and enter the dimly lit room with Gynela.

You rush into straight to Ondolemar’s side so that you may take his bandaged hand in yours and know he is alive. Vyrshk brings you a chair, and you settle in promptly so you can take comfort in watching his vital signs. You glance at his chest to watch his breathing and realize the blanket has only been pulled up to his waist. You look away for a moment, flustered to see him in such nakedness, but look back because your mind needs the assurance of watching him breath. His scant, blond chest hair is distracting to that task, but it was better to think about that than his burnt hands.

“Luckily for him,” Drigoster says, “I was experimenting with a fire spell this time last year and suffered similar injuries. I still have the burn salve that salvaged my nose!”

“That’s a relief,” you say.

“Sorry, it took me so long!” Nir says as she walks in the room, “I came in the back, and this house is a maze.”

Ispa, walking in just behind her with Arnis, says, “I came in the front and I still got lost,” followed by a winded laugh.

Arnis announces, “I’m sure everyone will be happy to know that Janessa and Seryza are taking care of Jazan. Unfortunately that means they won’t be here.”

“I’m glad he’s okay,” you say happily.

Drigoster, not wishing to discuss Jazan the Magnificent anymore than absolutely necessary, changes the subjects as the newcomers get settled: “Out of pure academic curiosity, how old Ondolemar is?”

“One hundred and three,” you answer.

He chuckles the way adults do when small children explain they’re three _and_ _a half_. Oh to be young! Someday, not even the tens place will be worth mentioning.

Drigoster replies, “That explains the burns on his feet, I suppose. It’s likely his ward extended infinitely into the ground instead of under him. It’s astonishingly amateurish for someone who can handle Meridia’s holy fire and survive. Where did Ondolemar study magic?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Hm, I’ll have to ask him when he awakens. I would like to give his professors a sternly worded letter about the importance of fundamentals. Well, is everyone here?”

“We’re still waiting on Byff,” Gynela says.

“He’s okay, right?” Ispa asks. “I heard he wasn’t in it, right?”

“No, he was with me,” Nir says, “I bet he needs to visit everyone to put his mind at ease. Ol’ Ondolemar is in decent shape compared to half of ‘em.”

“I must talk to my family,” Drigoster says as he stands. “When I return we’ll call the meeting to order so that the injured might rest.”

Once he closes the guest room door behind him, his sister-in-law rushes him, hissing, “You brought a _Thalmor_ into my home!”

“Let’s be very clear, Ashamanu: this is _my_ home. I invited you to live here, to help you, _”_ Drigoster continues more sympathetically, “I’ve never cared when you claim this household as your own, but I must put my foot down this once. He’s the only reason we still have home.”

“He and Jazan,” Ashamanu says with a certain smile.

The conversation pauses as the trio waits to see who is walking up the steps. Byff greets Drigoster quietly, and his friend pays back the salutations as Byff passes by to join the others in the guest room.

When the door closes once more, Ashamanu whisper-shouts, “Another Thalmor! In my good house! Hell, invite Mehrunes Dagon! We’ll put Shoegorath in the kitchen, and Malacath in your study!”

“Peace,” her husband finally says. “Drigoster has made his decision and we must respect it. If you are good to our guests, I will buy you a new necklace and good incense.”

“Only if you do ‘that thing’ too.”

“I don’t want to know,” Drigoster says, turning on his heels and walking back into the cramped bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and clears his throat.

“Who are we missing?” Nir asks, “Senicky, Janessa, Seryza…”

“J’eki too,” Arnis finishes.”

“We can figure out who will tell who later. Let’s call this meeting to order,” Drigoster states.

Byff steps into the center of the room to begin, “I spoke with the ambassador not an hour ago, and the man is furious. When Ondolemar broke from the group to rescue the servants locked into their chambers, the fire encroached on the group, injuring several of the Thalmor Embassy staff. He is going to pursue prosecuting Ondolemar for treason.”

“That’s a load of shit!” Nir shouts.

“I agree! But Ambassador Kry’thyne does not see it as such. He’s ready to pin this entire thing on Ondolemar. Spite is not his only motivator. Not a single one of us has any clue who placed the bar on the door. I know the servants’ entrance must have been blocked sometime after nine at night because that is when I slipped out to see you, Nir.”

That calms her somewhat, so he moves on, “I for one cannot rest until I know who killed Gilgrmowel.”

“I saw him get out!” Nir cries.

“His lungs were too damaged… he- he passed,” Byff says.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ispa says softly to Nir, who appreciates the comfort even if she and Gilgrmowe had never been very close.

“All we have to do is make sure that people know that the fire was Meridia’s doing,” Arnis says.

Vyrshk speaks up, “The daedra can only do something like that with a mortal’s help. They can’t just set Nirn ablaze on a whim.”

“Everything would be on fire constantly if they could,” you remark.

“Just like Oblivion,” Vyrshk says with a nod.

Annoyed, Byff redirects the conversation, “We need to independently search for evidence, interview people, and find clues tomorrow. …I wish Ondolemar could help us. He’s one of the greatest investigators in the whole Dominion. He would have this solved by dinner.”

Ispa replies, “I mean I’m not a medical expert, but I’m thinking he’ll be out for awhile, considering everything he’s been through.”

Gynela says, “He may be awake as early as a day.”

“This is terrible,” Byff says, raking his fingers under his hoof, “My first investigation is a murder, arson, with daedra worship! I’m not trained for all this! Tomorrow the uninjured will be investigating but they’re only going to look for proof that Ondolemar set the blaze.”

“But wait,” you say, “How could he bar the door and be inside?”

Drigoster answers with a pointed stare, “They don’t need to prove that _he_ put the bar on the door. And before you say anything about the bar being heavy, an elixir of strength can be made from that dremora horn.”

“Well, I was talking to Jazan at the Silvermoon Inn at the time,” you muse.

“An alibi, better,” Byff says, “Don’t trust the Thalmor to trust you.”

Arnis steps in, “Tomorrow we’ll all look for clues, whether it be rumors or in the ashes.

At ten we will convene in your home, if you would find that agreeable, professor.” Drigoster nods. “If Ondolemar is awake, he can help us piece together what we’ve found. Otherwise, we’ll puzzle it out ourselves.”

“So what do we already know that wasn’t already said?” Ispa asks.

Drigsoter reports, “Meridia is the source of the unnatural flame.”

Byff adds, “The person or persons who aided her are unknown.”

Gynela says, “It started just before midnight. The door was already barred when the fire started.”

“Or there is a great deal of community silence,” Vyrshk states quietly.

Byff says, “The fire started in the servants’ exit, which was clear at nine. Anything else?”

“Nothing that isn’t third- or fourth-hand,” Ispa replies with a shrug and the room seems to agree.

Nir says, “I’ll get the message out to Senicky and J’eki tomorrow. They’re pretty far removed from the gardens, but I bet they can find out something.”

“I can scour the market district for rumors,” Arnis offers.

“And we will listen closely at the university,” Gynela adds. “If this was a show of power, there is bound to be some idiot bragging about it.”

“I’ll want to retire after my class, but I can use the time to study the phenomenon,” Drigoster admits, “I’m quite, quite tired.”

“Well, I will be seeing you first thing tomorrow,” Byff says, “The first order of business will be raking the ashes to search for clues. Until then, rest well.”

All the others bade their good-byes until you were alone with Drigoster, Vyrshk, and Ondolemar.

“We have important day tomorrow,” Drigoster states, “Vyrshk, please show misses to the servants’ quarters.”

“I can’t leave his side,” you beg, the tears almost returning.

“I’ll fetch you a blanket,” Vyrshk says before seeing himself out.

“I must have sleep soon,” Drigoster states, seeming too weary to remember proper language.

When he departs, you’re left in the silence for only a minute before the lady of the house steps in.

“Good evening, ma’am,” you greet, though it’s closer to morning now.

“You know,” she says as she closes the door behind her. “It is awfully generous of me to let you stay in my home, free of charge.”

“Thank you so much, ma’am. Blessings on your house and name.” You wish that could be the end of it.

“I do think I should get a little something out of it, though.”

“Yes ma’am,” you reply, having little choice.

“My brother-in-law and his assistant drive. Me. Mad. Every night, they’re outside on the porch _chit-chatting_ until dawn and I can hear every word! I want to sleep! I can’t do this! Make Gynela move in so I can tell her to shut up without it being rude. I will even forgive you for the wear on my rugs.”

Knowing you can’t afford that, you reply, “I’ll see to it ma’am.”

“Oh wonderful!” she says brightly.

She moves to leave and you stop her with a question: “Missus, could I ask if you have any Varst caps?”

“Varst caps,” she says, turning around. The unusual request is practical enough; Varst caps heal lungs burned by heat and ash. However, Varst caps only grow in Vvardenfell, and are barely known _inside_ of Morrowind. She studies you for a long moment and finally asks, “Where did you hear of those?”

“In a book,” you lie.

“Which book?”

“I don’t remember.”

“In my three hundred-some years, I have never seen a single thing written about Varst caps. They require such a special preparation that no outsider would ever guess their utility. And because Azura taught it to us, it is sacred and not meant to be shared with outsiders, in books or otherwise.”

“Oh, I was once engaged to a Dunmer,” you say.

“I thought you read it in a book.”

“It was such a long time ago, I think I got confused.”

“Hmm…” Ashamanu muses, her eyes narrowing. Two mysteries in her house is good luck and great gossip, so she let’s it be for now. “I do have some, but you need to get those lovebirds to screw before I’ll give you one cap. Good night.”

Vyrshk reenters with the blanket just as she exits, but he is gone within a moment. Though the candle is low, you reach in your apron and pull out the letter you received from a courier.

_I need to speak to you about something very important, something I should have told you much earlier. I’ll see you in your room at midnight tonight._

_Ondolemar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry for the delay. I had the worst week and couldn't write at all! I didn't wanna think about Ondolemar being hurt :((( better things next chapter!
> 
> Lore note: I just found out three days ago that in TES "human" is a term that applies to any sentient being, elf, Argonian, man, etc. Because I conflate WoW lore with TES constantly, I've been using "human" to mean what is referred to as "man" in TES (Nords, Redguards etc). Whoops. This whole fic is just fifty-some lore errors in a trench coat lmao


	19. Savior

Though Senicky speaks, you can’t take your eyes from Ondolemar, who, for all his propriety, could not even get himself out of bed.

“I wish I had better information,” Senicky says, shaking her head.

“Still, we can rule out anyone at the chapels,” Seryza says, “I highly, highly doubt anyone so devoted to Meridia would even pretend to go to chapel. Boethiah or Vile, perhaps, but Meridia does not like any competition, even fake competition.”

“We haven’t found much,” Ispa notes grimly, “You think with all this craziness someone would know something.”

“J’eki has not spoken yet,” Byff remarks hopefully.

“J’eki’s information is old now, but J’eki shall repeat: the bar across the door is an ebony ingot stolen from the shipyard. J’eki can add that the ingots are made long and thin like that so two people can carry it. Ebony is so heavy, two orcs must work together to unload them one-by-one.”

“So there was an accomplice,” Ondolemar states. You draw closer to him, fretting over the effort it took to speak.

“It wouldn’t surprise me that a few of them found each other, but I couldn’t imagine a group of more than seven or eight.” Drigoster says, “Summoning is a serious faux pas in Cyrodiil. Even academic demonstrations at the university draw ire. Only Jazan can get away with it, and that’s only because of his ‘charms’ and promise to protect the city.”

“So why did Jazan run off to Oblivion?” Janessa asks. “Surely the city guard and the Thalmor’s official task force could figure out that two people were needed for the task, and everyone knows Jazan is not the type to ask or even pay for help. He takes issue with giving his clothes to a laundress!”

“Poor thing...” Senicky remarks.

“Popular opinion is hot enough to burn the innocent,” Vyrshk says grimly, having received hateful stares on that afternoon’s market trip.

“It’s making him look guilty,” Byff mutters.

Ondolemar says, “He’s a scoundrel, but arson is far beyond him. He’s more the type to challenge one to a duel.”

“Or sleep with your husband,” Gynela says, recalling the source of Jazan’s indefinite band from the university.

“I don’t think Jazan is capable of it either,” Arnis admits, “I don’t see eye-to-eye with him, but if he says that he is going to Oblivion to search for the culprit then I am inclined to believe him. He wouldn’t want anyone in FAPS to be implicated.”

“We’ll find concrete evidence tomorrow,” Nir says assuredly, “The rumor mill will kick up and someone will squeal. No one can hold in a secret like this for long.”

“We should let you rest, Ondolemar,” Drigoster remarks, more worried about you than the reclining elf.

“Please drink lots of fluids,’ Gynela says to him. She clasps your shoulder and squeezes it. “Get some rest, love.”

“J’eki, would you mind escorting me back to the Temple District?” Senicky asks.

“J’eki would be honored,” he says with a polite bow. Vyrshk opens the guest room door for them, and then follows them out so he can open the front door as well.

“We shall take our leave presently,” Seryza says.

“You know, I was thinking the same thing!” Janessa replies brightly. Ondolemar sees the smallest smile grace Seryza’s lips at her wife’s signature phrase.

As the others say farewell, Nir pulls you to the side and says, “Hey, uh- Could you help me find the backdoor? I swear the walls move in those halls.”

“Oh yes,” you say, “it is quite- Good night Ispa!”

“Good night!”

You return to Nir, “I’ve been in and out a dozen times today and I’ll tell you the first nine times were a nightmare. Follow me.”

Half of you didn’t want to leave Ondolemar’s side, but a better part of you knew you knew that fresh air would soothe your frazzled mind more than staring at your weakened beloved.

“So Nir, where do you work?” you ask.

“Oh, I pick up jobs around town.”

“Char work?”

“Yes, yes. Stairs, walls, cellars, you know. I get to meet a lot of interesting people!” she answers.

Of course, she is glossing over the ache and pain of scrubbing stones, hands constantly soaked in lye and steaming water. You suspect that she’s much younger than she appears, although you would never make such a remark. If she can be cheerful about a constantly aching back, you’re not about to bring her down.

“Is that how you met Byff?” you reply, turning the narrow corner.

“Yes…” she replies, a mixture of romance and sadness in her voice.

“We’re walking under the master bedroom,” you whisper, pointing above you and then pressing your finger to your lips to signal for hush. You tip-toe to the back door, fearing that Ashamanu will awake and begin shrieking about her insomnia.

“This door is very loud,” you mouth to Nir.

You carefully jigger it open so that it won’t creak and you both slip out before you carefully shut it behind you. Still mindful of the mistress, you creep around the side of the building so that you might give her a proper good-bye in the street.

It would have been more logical to turn right, but you went to the left instead and spot a very familiar Bosmer peering into the ground level window. He doesn’t look up immediate;y, but when he does his face is dimly illuminated, not that any amount of darkness would have obscured his identity.

“Mux, you bastard!” you shout.

Nir calls out, “What’s going on?” as you lunge for him.

He dodges your grab and dashes away, but you quickly collects yourself and sprint after him. Nir chases after you, snaking around the gardens a few times before running into the Market District. She knows someone is following her and glances behind, but it is neither Drigoster nor Vyrshk. No, a small child is trailing behind, following only because he wanted to know what all the fuss is about.

You’re quickly growing the distance while Nir’s tired body is slowing down. She trots to a stop to catch her breath and give that boy a coin to run back to Drigoster’s house and alert him to the situation. At first, it seemed like this Mux was trying to elude you, but now she fears he’s leading you to a trap. Though she’s lost sight of you, she checks every alleyway until she finds guards. No one would ever care if a servant went missing, so Nir lies and insists you were chasing a suspicious person in a black robe. With the city’s fear coursing through their veins, the guards fan out and begin searching for you in every nook and dark corner.

You don’t let up, not for a moment, feet pounding the stones without a single thought for your safety, not even when you hurdle into an empty shop after Mux. You’re ready to fight him mano a mano until you hear the door slam closed behind you. Fear chills your spine still when you suddenly realize you’re in grave danger. A figure is behind you, probably Tyronnus, as Verel sits on a crate next to the only light, a flickering, smokey candle. The Breton cleans his nails with his glimmering knife as Mux slowly unsheathes his.

You look at the open window of the shop, out to a dim alley and up to a dark, starless, moonless sky. You know you’re not quick enough to escape through it, but you stay fixed on that impossible rather than Mux’s malicious grin. When Tyronnus grabs your arms from behind, you begin to whimper, “Ondolemar… Ondolemar…” even though you know he cannot walk.

The next instant, a gust snuff out the flame and the very next. a crow flies through the window. Its black feathers brush your face as it careens around your head and directly into your captor’s face. Mux charges you but two more fly in, savaging him with their claws. Verel tries to grab one, but a large raven swoops in and strikes him so hard he’s knocked to the ground. Birds fill the room endlessly, until you could not tell one from the next, until the sounds of the men’s screams were drowned out by the cawing and flapping wings.

You want to shriek, to scream, but no noise you could make would justify the horror you are witnessing. Even in the dim light the sight is horrible, and you fall to your knees, covering your face, certain you are next.

“City guard, open up!” a voice bellows outside. They wait only two seconds before they ram the door, though the bar holds it.

“We will break down this door!” they yell. It takes no time for those armed with battleaxes to weave their way to the front of the group and begin hacking at the door, their very bones rattling every time they accidentally struck the ebony bar.

Your attackers are still writhing under a mass of black birds when the guards brush away to wood chips and hold a lantern to the hole. Though the crevice is barely an inch wide, they seem the black glimmer and yell, “It’s ebony! It’s ebony!” to the growing crowd around them.

Somehow, through all of this horrible chaos, you hear a small, tiny voice declaring, “You will know the wrath of Kill Gore!”

You look up at the shop window, where an ethereal bunny sits, wiggling its cute little nose. Your sense returns and you realize you can escape out the window after the creature. The growing, riotous crowd is so focused on axe blows to the door that they don’t see you slip out the side and into the alley. Kill Gore hops along, compelled by his summoner to lead you to safety.

“Psst!” you hiss when you see Vyrshk ducking around the back like you, also avoiding the growing mob.

He swivels his head and smiles in relief, “Oh Azura’s mercy! Uncle! Uncle!”

Drigoster jogs over, equally relieved. He escorts you back to the Elven Gardens while Vyrshk seeks out Nir an inform her of the good fortune. Once back in his house, Drigoster tries to persuade you to rest in the servants’ quarters, but you insist on seeing Ondolemar. Far too tired to protest, he opens his bedroom door and you catch a glimpse of Gynela.

That discussion would have to wait. Your heart races with worry as your approach Ondolemar’s room. You open the door softly, supposing he might already be asleep.

“What were you thinking?!” Ondolemar says as soon as he sees you.

“Peace,” you say, rushing over to his side.

He fusses with the sheets emphasize his point as he continues, “Chasing after that crafty bastard of a bastard, in the dead of night! Without telling a single soul what was going on! Some out of breath boy alerted the household on _Nir’s_ behalf! You do realize you could have been- been- irreparably hurt! Irreparably…”

“What are you thinking?” you chide back as you tuck him in. “Using magic when you’ve barely recovered consciousness! Kill Gore is nothing for you to summon, but those crows?”

“You know those crows were not me. No mortal can create crows that fly on a shadow and disappear at the first light without the help of-”

“Nocturnal,” you say abruptly, tears filling your eyes. “Oh Mara, oh Mara how could this happen? How could I get wrapped up with a _prince!”_

You collapse into the chair at the side of his bed, trembling all over, murmuring “Oh Mara, oh Mara” endlessly.

Though Ondolemar’s hands are bound in two layers on bandages, he takes one of yours gently rubbing his thumb on your palm as much as he can move it, “Peace… peace. You are here now. You are safe.”

“How could this happen? Why me? Why did Nocturnal’s flock spare my eyes?”

“I saw that scene through Kill Gore’s eyes, and I can offer you my qualified opinion, for every Thalmor must know the prince’s ways.

“I saw the ebony ingot through the door handles, so I must conclude that Mux’s group was responsible for Meridia’s fire. I have no doubt that we were the true target of the attack, though they must not have known you were not inside with me.

“Princes enjoy ruining their enemies, and ruining their enemy’s the moment before victory is something of a delicacy. That is to say, Nocturnal’s reprisal was not targeted at you. Nocturnal does not care for Nirn, so she does not seek to interfere with it in any more ways than her pride or power demands. That is to say, I do not think she shall seek you out again.”

You put your other hand on his, still shaking… “T- T- Thank you for saying that.”

“Your physical fatigue surely exacerbates your mental fray. Judging by your earlier report, you crossed this city six times in the course of today. Go downstairs and take a proper rest in a proper bed-”

“No,” you say firmly, shaking your head.

“No...? Did you say no to an order?” he asks, more curious than angry.

“I won’t,” you say with a pout. “I would rather a whipping later than sleep in a dark place tonight.”

“I must insist,” he says gently, “A lack of sleep will drive you to madness,” Ondolemar says gently. “Take my candle with you.”

“No, I shan’t. Besides, I couldn’t sleep without you in my sight. With everything that has transpired, I need to know that you are okay, Ondolemar.”

“Fine,” he says, trying to pull the covers off. You quickly pin him into bed, making his mind question his body’s gentlemanly nature. He collects himself and explains, “You will sleep in the bed, and I will sleep in the chair.”

“I won’t allow it when you are so weak,” you say releasing him.

He clears his throat, “Well, then, the only practical and practicable solution that will satisfy both parties is to share this bed. It is not quite big enough for us to lay on our backs side-by-side, but-” You have already begun removing your apron. “Yes! Good. Wonderful. Yes. Perhaps we may both get proper rest, knowing the other is accounted and cared for. In fact there is a school of thought among magic users that…”

You crawl into bed, under the blanket, stunning him into silence, bringing blush all the way from to his chest to the tip of his ears.

“This bed is so soft,” you say quietly as you settle in.

“I only wish I had two pillows,” he manages to eke out from his dry throat.

“I could lay on your chest-”

“Yes, do that,” he says, glancing away because he knows that sounded so eager.

“If I can listen to your heart, I’ll know you’re okay,” you murmur as you settle into laying on him.

“Then stay there and be comforted,” he whispers, brushing an unattached hair away from your face.

“Ondolemar, your heart is beating really fast.”

“Yes, yes it is. I should order it to calm itself so that its thundering does not disturb your sleep.”

You laugh a little. “You can’t tell the heart what to do.”

He laughs too. “Oh I know, believe me, I’ve tried.”

You hum contentedly and nuzzle your head into his chest. “Good night, Ondolemar.”

He settles into his pillow and replies, “Good night, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> One time my friend got robbed in Miami and was chasing after the guy, lost track of him, turns around and there's this five year-old kid following her like "Yayyyy a game! A game!" Like this kid really just randomly started following some grown ass woman because he saw people running and it looked like fun. 
> 
> In a medieval setting it actually makes more sense because vagrant kids would regularly seek out kerfluffles so they could perhaps be paid a coin to run an urgent message or whatever. But still, s/o to this random child in Miami chasing strangers (my friend walked the kid back to his apartment complex, which was right around where she got robbed. She scolded him the entire way, although she said it didn't seem to be sinking in)


	20. Softer Still

Ondolemar offered to take you to see the corpses of your attackers, but thankfully you had asked him to go for you. Truthfully, the battered corpses didn’t resemble people anymore, much less a particular person, but Ondolemar did not wish to disturb you, so he simply told you it was done.

You were satisfied, but quiet for a few days, and he left you to that emotion for a day. Once you heard the bodies had been cut down and buried, you asked him to escort you to the market. He had been worried a phobia would take hold if you stayed inside much longer, so he was happy to take you out. By the end of yesterday, you seemed at ease once more, and today, you seemed giddy.

“Hello Mr. Fluffy Bum!” you say to the ethereal creature hopping around as your hands smooth Ondolemar’s hair.

“No! I am Kill Gore!”

“Mr. Fluffy Bum sounds grumpy,” you say in a cute voice to annoy the creature.

“Stop! Stop!”

Ondolemar laughs, and you grab his head, chiding him, “Stay still or I’ll have to sis Mr. Fluffy Bum on you!”

“Kill Gore will own your soul!” he says, hopping around as much as possible, since that was about as much chaos as the little creature could create.

“Mr. Fluffy Bum!”

“Kill Gore!”

“Mr. Fluffy Bum!”

“Listen here you little brat!” it begins its rant, Ondolemar laughing heartily as the dignified Kill Gore begins to explain how monstrous it is in the cutest, tiniest voice while you chirp, “Fluffy Bum Bun! Fluffy Bum Bun! Say that ten times fast!”

Ondolemar can’t stop laughing, and you right his head again. “Boy, you’re going to have crooked hair if you can’t keep still.”

“Ah, whatever you say, love,” he teases back. You try to appear nonplussed, but he knows how a “slip of the tongue” flusters you. “Would you like to go to the Market District today?”

“Of course I do,” you say as you pull his hair into a perfectly centered ponytail.

“Good, I have an order waiting for you,” he replies with a coy smile.

“It sounds like you’ve got something planned.”

He raises his eyebrows dubiously. “Perhaps...”

“I’m excited,” you reply in a warm voice that sent a cold shiver down his spine. “There, you hair is fixed for the day.”

The rabbit, having finished its squeaking rant, “shouts”, “You shall know the meaning of fear when you see Kill Gore’s true form!”

“Oh you,” you say, wagging the comb at it, “Do you want me to comb your hair too?”

“Kill Gore does not preen! Kill Gore conquers!”

“So when do you think Jazan will be back from Oblivion?” you ask.

“I frankly, I doubt he’ll come back at all,” Ondolemar says, “The mood in the city is not favorable toward those who collude with that sort of thing.”

“I pray to Mara he returns. Things were awfully quiet in the Market District without him. The last meeting was so boring without him.”

“I thought only humans could join the meetings.”

“Well, he’s there afterwards and he is quite fun to talk to,” you admit.

“Should I be jealous?”

“Perhaps…” you tease back.

“Hold on. What does Jazan do that-”

Ondolemar is cut off by Ashemanu shrieking from clear across the house: “What is this?! Tell me what this is!”

“Shall we depart presently?” Ondolemar says as he stands.

“Yes, let’s,” you reply, wanting to get far from that kind of rage. You retrieve Ondolemar’s gloves and the two of you slip out the front door without saying good-bye. Even a block from the home, you can still hear the mistress shouting about the rugs.

Ondolemar glances over his shoulder and remarks, “We’re out of the warpath.”

“Thank Mara we made a tidy exit,” you reply.

Ondolemar wants to keep the conversation flowing, but he is then faced with the first of a barrage of obligatory greetings and polite conversation. Fellow Thalmor, important guardsman, prominent citizens, none of them half-as-fun as speaking to you. The pair of you were well into the Market District before he can speak to you again.

“It’s Mid Year of an even year. In Markarth, you would normally receive a new summer dress,” he begins.

“Yes sir, although I would not worry about such things, with all of your possessions having burned up. The summer dresses always wear out terribly fast. I haven’t had one since this time last year.”

“I am being remunerated the gold. Besides, I purchased this when I first arrived.”

“Purchased what?”

“A proper traveling dress, made of proper fabric. You deserve something much finer than homespun wool spun on a rickety wheel. Mr. Doflin informed me the garment would be finished today.”

“F- Finer! Sir! Thank you so much…! I- I don’t know what to say!”

“You need not say anything, especially if you don’t like it.”

“I’m sure I will. Wait a second… You never took me for a fitting. How did Mr. Doflin know my measurements?”

“Well, here we are!” he announces, knocking on the door himself.

A beautifully iridescent Aragonian answers the door, and exclaims, “Ah, Mr. Ondolemar! Yes! Come in. Everything is waiting for the fiiting”

Every surface in the shop gleams with a mirror shine that would have betrayed a single speck of dust, if there were one. You were so enamored by the opulence, that you did not even see his assistant approach until she was shooing your behind the screen. Once there, Ondolemar and Mr. Doflin exit to the sitting room to allow you further privacy.

You’re stopped still. “Is all of this-?”

“Yes, yes,” the assistant says dismissively, already undressing you. “Now first go the under britches. This dress is a false skirt; the back is split, see?” she says, reaching over to pull the dress. Indeed, the skirt is not a completed circle, but the style is loose enough and the layers overlap so thoroughly. no one would ever know unless you told them.

“That seems like a very expensive choice,” you comment.

“Well, it’s the only way to stay modest in a dress without having to ride side saddle. Side saddle! I swear it was invented by Clavicus Vile as some sort of cruel trick,” she muses as she ties the laces on your shifts.

“Oh! I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

“Step into here, miss,” she says.

You step into the underdress, a light cotton dyed dark grey, suitable for traveling on dusty and sometimes muddy roads. As the assistant ties you in and explains how you may fasten this yourself, you spot the overdress, the one everyone shall see.

“Is- Is that mine?” you ask softly, barely believing a maid would be given such a fine outfit.

“Aye.”

“It has trim on it,” you whisper.

“Just ribbon the same color as this, right under the bust and around the neck, not around the wrists or hem of course.”

“Oh, of course not,” you breathe, hardly thinking about something so trivial with such a beautiful midnight blue dress. The three-quarters sleeves were practical, as was the absence of trim on them, but the rest of the garment seemed sumptuous, even for a valet.

The bodice on the garment was much wider, showing every inch of collarbone, but not very low, as to remain proper. The waist is high, in the style most elves prefer: just below the bust line was a swath of trim to cinch the flowing garment together. The skirt is loose, and even when you turn from side-to-side, the dress does not reveal its secret.

You examined yourself over and over in the mirror, amazed at how sophisticated you looked, and how well everything fit. The assistant put a stitch here and there, but apparently Ondolemar knew your measurements quite well. Once she finishes, she fetches the gentlemen.

“How do I look?” you ask shyly as Ondolemar reenters the room.

Ondolemar flushes deeply, and admits, “As beautiful as ever.”

“Sir! I- I-” you say, glancing nervously between the tailors, “Thank you for giving me something so fashionable.”

“Here is your shawl,” Ondolemar says holding you the carefully folded garment, “Traveling by horseback can be dirty, and I would hate for you to muss your hair.

A matching gray piece with leaves embroidered around the edges. You marvel at it for so long that Mr. Doflin signals for his assistant to gently takes the piece from your hands and drape it around you. The cloth is large and long, able to be wrapped in the crux of each elbow with the center of the scarf resting atop your head.

Mr. Doflin, who suspects a secret love between the his client and his patron, remarks to Ondolemar, “She looks as beautiful as Mother Mara herself, yes?”

“Yes, she does…”

Dr. Doflin’s tail wags with excitement. Wait until the other tailors in the guild hear about the Thalmor hopelessly falling over himself for his maid. The lovers stare at each other shyly for a long moment, both tailors quiet, noting every glance and bitten lip for rumor mill they were certain to open.

“Well!” Ondolemar says abruptly, as if he just remembered there were people in the world other than you and him. “Thank you Mr. Doflin. You, and your assistant, have done a most satisfactory job.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir. You are welcome to stay for tea. My next appointment is not until two.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I would like to take advantage of this relatively cool Midyear Day and teach my charge how to ride.”

“Oh! That will be most exciting.”

After a long bout of polite good-byes and such, you follow Ondolemar to the stables, beaming the entire time. Seeing you smile so easily makes his steps light, and it takes no time at all for the two of you to reach the stables.

Though he is somewhat early, the groom only keeps him waiting a moment while she tests all the buckles and ties one more time. Ondolemar insists on triple checking himself before he will let you mount your steed. Normally the groom would help a lady in a dress into the saddle, but your benefactor insists you step into his hands.

After a moment of smoothing out the front of your dress, you remark, “This must be why my apron had to go into a saddle bag.”

“Unfortunately, you must be without your dear apron for a moment,” he teases.

“How does my dress look in the back?” you ask, trying to peer around to see for yourself.

“The split only occurs inches from the saddle, and one cannot tell the britches underneath from your split underdress anyways,” he assures you.

“I suppose they are the same color… Oh! What is she doing?” you ask as your horse slowly begins to turn in circle.

“You’re leaning to the right,” he explains.

“Oh my, oh my,” you say while you right yourself. “Horses are sensitive creatures.”

“They are and they aren’t… You shall see. Now, give your horse a good kick- Oh, it must be harder than that, dear-” Ondolemar hastily glances around to see if anyone heard that genuine slip. Once certain he was undetected, he continues, “You need a good, solid kick. The old girl won’t buck, I promise.”

“I don’t want to hurt her,” you mutter, rubbing her mane.

“If you were an orc wearing spurs, I would be concerned, but you’re not, so I’m not.”

“I’m sorry Ms. Horse…”

“Hm… If you were more magically inclined, I would teach you the ways of my Bosmer cousins, who simply imbue their horses with their will.”

“How does one do that!?”

“Hm, well,” Ondolemar must pause, since that type of magic is not at all the sort he studies. “A mage would place her hands on the horse, to feel its emotions. Once the mage has held its thoughts for a long moment, she may impose her- well, I don’t know if _‘impose’_ is the correct word for it. It’s more like persuading, or compromising, or at least the appearance of such. Not that it matters, the technique a very-” Your horse trots over to his. “...advanced.”

You stop the horse with the same magic and smile smugly.

“I cannot say I am not impresses, but for the time being, I would prefer to teach you the fundamental manner of which to ride horses.”

“I understand!”

“Now, use the heel of your foot. You don’t need to strike as hard when the force is all in one place. See? She is hardly bothered by it.”

“I am so nervous!” you admit.

“Then I will be confident for the both of us. Besides, we cannot go faster than a trot until we cross the bridge out of the city, so you have time to grow used to a trot,” he says with an easy smile.

“Okay… okay…” you chant to yourself.

Seeing that you need a distraction, he adds, “Try to hold your upper body stiff. My aunt would always say ‘Imagine a hook in your collar attached to a clothesline in front of you.”

“This is quite difficult!” you admit.

“It is not merely ‘sitting there’, as the uninitiated might think, but it will get easier with time.”

“When did you learn to ride?”

“I was five, although it was actually a pony. I did not ride a full-size horse until I was nine.”

“That is still so young.”

“No younger than the well to-do children of Markarth…” he glances at you mischievously, “Or was that a comment about my age?”

“No sir!”

“I would not mind it,” he reassures you, “As long as you don’t.”

“I don’t mind it at all. I quite admire it, actually,” you reply.

For awhile, you ride in silence, with Ondolemar too flustered to say anything at all. Once you finish crossing the bridge, you pick up the conversation again, “Would you say you are a good rider?”

“Adept,” he states, and you laugh which earns you a curious look.

You explain sheepishly, “I was just thinking how the elven definition adept is basically the human definition mastery.”

“No… I truly do not have any special talent about riding. I can handle back speed and the rare jump, but that groomswoman could outrace me any day of the week” he states flatly.

“Well, I think you do a fine job,” you say, shooting him a sly glance.

“You too,” he replies with a nod and a smile. “Now give her another kick to bring her to a trot. Don’t worry; she won’t bolt.”

“But what if she does?”

“Then I shall chase her down and slow her myself.”

“What if you cannot catch her?”

“I will. I have a much faster horse than you.”

“But… what if you cannot?”

Somewhat amused, he plays along with your game of worry, insisting, “Then I shall cast a calming spell on the beast.”

“And what if that doesn’t work?”

“The worst case is that she stops with a start, and in that case I shall use a spell to ensure you are not harmed when thrown. I promise that not even your pretty dress will be harmed.”

“But what if-”

“Wa’teef, the master thief of enjoyment,” he says to quip an aphorism. “Trust me, love, a trot is hardly as fast as a horse goes.”

You smile shyly, unable to refuse any longer. You mimic Ondolemar’s gentle snap of the reigns, which you greatly prefer that to the whole kicking business. The trot is a brisk pace, not nearly as fast as you’d imagined, but your hands still grip the saddle and the reigns with equal force. Ondolemar watches you intently, pleased to see you’re maintaining good form, and amused by your white knuckles.

“I feel very ladylike,” you say to hide how nervous you are.

“You hold yourself like one,” he replies, “and you look like one. Why, your wrap has not budged an inch! You have quite the noble instinct.”

A noise startles you, breaking the moment. A caravan from Hammerfell, singing to pass the time, approaches from the west. You sit extra, extra upright, as if to compensate for the guilt laying uncomfortably in your gut.

“It is polite to slow down for the oncoming traffic,” Ondolemar says over the hoofbeats, “Pull on the reigns little by little… Good, good. Now relax.”

“Slowing down is very easy,” you remark.

“She’s a very well-trained horse. In the future you must pull on the reigns evenly, or she may turn sharply.”

“Yes sir,” you say, that stale, staccato reply colder than Oblivion when compared to your sunny smile from just moments before.

Never one to be impolite, Ondolemar acknowledged the traders with a proper tilt of the head, and you a warm greeting. Once they, Ondolemar spurs his horse, first to a trot, and then to a canter before you can protest anymore. He stays aside of you, cognizant of your every move, even if you are handling yourself well.

“What’s my horse’s name?” you say above the racket.

“Betty!” he calls out.

“Betty, you’re a wonder.”

“Mine is Sharius,” he says.

“Sharius, you’re a wonder too!” you reply.

“He appreciates it!”

“We’ll be traveling west along this road, I assume?”

“Yes, there is just one main road to Skingrad.”

“How long will it take?”

“A few weeks if we make good time, but we’ve yet to do that once on our trip so far.”

You laugh. “My apologies, Ondolemar.

“You know I don’t mind any time spent with you.” If you weren’t riding a horse, you would bury your hands in your face; he goes on, “Do you miss Skyrim?”

“Not when I am with you,” you say, shooting him a smile.

Ondolemar blushes, looks down at his hands, and then to the road again, too flustered to think of anything clever. In the silence, you share glances that make you both smile, sometimes giggle, and even burst into laughter for no reason other than being happy to be together without any prying eyes or prodding friends.

Just after four, Ondolemar points out a thicket of pines, “Let’s stop there to rest the horses.”

“Alright!” you say, pulling on the reigns gently.

“The trees are dense, but Betty will find the best path.”

You’re genuinely surprised at how little you need to direct her between the pines and aspens. “What a clever lady you are, Betty!”

“Horses are intelligent creatures; that is why we may influence their thoughts. It may seem counter-intuitive, but a fish or an insect can be much more difficult… Just a little farther now, and then you shall learn to dismount.”

Ondolemar makes it look elegant and easy, but you still shouldn’t have been so surprised when your foot gets caught in the stirrup. You would have tumbled back, if not for Ondolemar catching you in his his arms.

“I should have specified that the first step is to remove one’s left foot from the stirrup,” he jokes before setting you upright again.

“I think I prefer falling into your arms.”

“You could twist your ankle!”

“Oh Ondolemar, I am only trying to earn your smile,” you say flirtatiously, looking up at him through your lashes. “Shall I prepare supper?”

He had already been digging in his horse’s saddlebag when you asked. “Your task,” he says, producing an old bed spread, “is to put this in a nice spot.”

“Yes sir!” you reply cheerily as you take the bundle from him. “Do we need to tie up the horses?”

“They’ll be fine,” he says, “Now hurry up and rest!”

A small stream runs through the clearing, a solid trickle even with the lack of recent rain. Large rocks flank the sides, so you find the flattest one, speckled with sunlight escaping the trees. You make sure to smooth it out neatly, and even go to the trouble of findings stones to hold down the corners before you call after Ondolemar.

“Do you need help, mister?” you call out.

“I _should_ be able to carry all of these things in one trip…” he mutters, mostly to himself as he juggles jars, loaves, and everything else.

“If you would’ve taken two trips the first time, you would be done by now!”

“Hush you, this is now matter of Altmeri pride!” he jokes, even if he knows he is quite serious about the matter.

“Use you shirt like an apron,” you say, “Pick up the pointed end, and then you can put everything in there.”

“You’re a genius” he says, following your command even if it were unbecoming of his rank to use his uniform as such. He knows you would never mind, nor breathe a word to anyone else.

“How much did you bring?” you comment when he kneels down and begins to unpack his goods.

“Bread, butter, strawberry jam, orange preserves, candied oranges, two knives for spreading, a bundle of dried figs, and a bottle of wine.”

“Oh, so hardly anything at all!” you tease.

“But I seem to have forgotten glasses for our drink,” he remarks.

“I don’t mind drinking from the same bottle as you.”

His heart gallops in his chest at those words, for every proper Altmeri wedding is sealed by drinking from the same goblet. It could be a coincidental remark, but you are so generally informed, and your eyes are so knowing he cannot help but think you mean it in sincerity.

“Fortified wine,” you comment as you check the label, “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Wha- No. I would never. If you prefer water, I can prepare some from the stream to be suitable for drinking-”

“You are easily made nervous for being such a confident man!”

“You quite enjoy making me nervous, don’t you?” he says with feigned hurt.

“You make it to easy!” You reach out to pinch his side like a childhood pest, but he catches your wrist to pull you in tighter. “No fair…” you protest shyly.

He sighs happily and releases you, remarking, “If you say so, dear.”

“Well, you did forget one other thing,” you say, going back to the wine, “a corkscrew.”

“Did I?” he says as he takes the bottle from you. He holds the neck between his index and thumb and uses the other hand to turn the bottom of the bottle. Before you can ask what he’s up to, you see the cork rise out of the neck.

“How are you doing that?!”

“Easy,” he replies, wiggling the cork out the rest of the way, “I simply heated the air in the neck of the bottle, and only the neck. Heat in the drink could spoil the flavor.”

“That brings up more questions than it answers!”

“Then ask them. I am too happy to teach you.”

“But I only have two questions left in my store!”

“Oh, forget that silly rule,” he says with a wave of his hand. “It is from a different Ondolemar in a different time.”

“Have you ever been kissed before?”

“I thought you were going to ask about the wine!” he protests.

“You don’t have to answer.”

“Years and years ago, before your parents were even born, I played a game of Auri-El’s arrow. You spin and arrow and kiss whomever the arrow points to.”

“How scandalous!”

“Don’t make me feel strangely about my own life! Being of such low breeding, little dalliances like that do not matter.”

“I thought your father was a lord…”

“My _mother_ is a lord. My father is- I would rather not talk about it, actually.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to press into a sensitive subject…”

“It’s quite okay,” he says, finally taking a sip of the wine. “I wish I were not so cowardly as to not face what I am.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself. I am in no rush to tell you about my own pains,” you say, touching his arm and squeezing it. Not wishing to linger on a sore subject, you ask, “How is it?”

“Very good! Please try it for yourself.”

“Thank you,” you say when you take it from him. After taking a long sip, you comment, “The Imperials really know how to make a wine!”

Ondolemar smiles, glad to move onto the best wine regions in Cyrodiil to the bottling, to the art of glass blowing, and then glass armor making. Travelers pass on the road, but the trees shield their curious gaze from the laughter and jokes wafting from the pines. The sun light intensifies as the sun dips, making his eyes glint with gold when he smiles at your not-very-funny jokes.

After calming down from laugh at one of his, you say, “I am looking forward to Valenwood. I think it will so incredibly different from any place I’ve ever been.”

“It is truly a wonder,” he says, eyes fixed on the first streaks of sunset in the sky, his heart on a possibility that seems closer than ever, and still so far. “I know you’re not familiar with the area, but please tell me if you wish to visit any particular in Valenwood.”

“Won’t that delay our trip further?”

“I don’t mind showing you the world.”

“The world? What if I want to see Elsweyr?”

“Whatever you wish, I shall be the guard to your convoy.”

You hesitate, heart racing yet unsure. “What if this merchant wants to sail passed her ultimate destination?”

Ondolemar flushes so hotly you can feel it from where you’re sitting. His mind tries to wrap around the words, their true meaning so obvious, and yet so impossible. All he can think to say is, “Wa’teef, the thief of time and enjoyment.”

With all the electricity coursing in the sparse inches between, and the river of emotion in his heart, his logical mind can’t stop his true feelings from spilling out. Without looking up from his fidgeting hands, he confesses, “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I really enjoy you as person.”

“I don’t mind that at all! Why would I?”

“Well- er- if-” Of all the time for you not to inteject with the end of his sentence and save him the face! “If you perhaps _thought_ I was making an advance- Urr… E- Well.”

“Were you making an advance?” you ask, specifying, “Not that it matters to me either way.”

His mind was such a mess he could hardly get oriented enough to hide it. He glances at you once, but your patient and expecting gaze only makes him more excited, so he goes back to his hands. The only thing he can manage to say is, “I would kiss you if I could.”

“You can.”

Ondolemar practically jumps with a start, clearly stunned by your answer. Nevfer had time seemed to move stranger, like an hourglass whose sand raced when there was little left. He reaches out to touch your face, hastily removing his gloves at the last moment so that he could feel your skin on his. In the orange, setting sun, you look as soft as it felt, and twice as warm. Suddenly time slows, or perhaps stops, because no elf had ever held their breath as long as he did in that moment just before he kisses you.

At first his lips barely grace yours, before he pulls away and searches you expression for anything resembling annoyance or fear. He finds only your smile, and you shifting closer to him now, so that when he leans in for a second kiss, his body presses against yours. His hands fall to your shoulders then your waist as he kisses you over and over, each time a little less afraid that you may never allow him to again. With that confidence comes more tender kisses each softer, softer, and softer still.

When the sun touches the horizon, Ondolemar reluctantly forces himself to stop the wonderful game of love. Riding at night is not for a novice, but he’s drawn into more kissing before he finally explains why the two of your must depart. His heart hates his self-restraint, but finds a surprising intimacy in cleaning up the picnic site that carries over even when the two of you are mounted once more.

Even when you mounted up, you did not take your eyes from the other for more than absolutely necessary. The horses follow the path at a steady pace, but still, the sun has disappeared not an hour into the ride. Ondolemar casts a magical light, and surprises himself to see a dozen tiny lights appear.

As the light grows thinner, Ondolemar casts an orb to guide the horses, only to find his orb is scattered into tiny little flecks of light that dance among the two of you. He’s utterly perplexed by the change, but you’re enchanted the little stars and try to capture them like torchbugs. The orbs posses an instinct to avoid being touched, but you catch one anyways and hold his magic close to your chest, granting Ondolemar the delight of feeling your mana flow into his.

A guard laughs loudly over the hill, frightening the both of you into your rigid, professional selves. The points die, and when he recasts the light, it is once again a simple orb without the sort of magic to delight you so. The Imperial City’s the outermost patrol crests the hill with their torched, and suddenly the afternoon feels like a distant, forbidden dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Sorry to go ghost. My friend was going through it so the whole month of August was booked. (She's okay! Just needed some help) This chapter might be a little rough around the edges but I needed to get back in the saddle (pun intended).
> 
> Auri-El's arrow is a canon Altmeri youth game. It is a version of spin-the-bottle played with a perfectly balanced golden arrow. Also, erotic Falmer literature is actually canon too?? It's a contraband book from ESO called Conquest of the Falmer (and it was banned by the order of St. Allessia). I've been having a blast going through the ESO contraband lists.


	21. A Wedding & A Promise

Seryza hurries the dock worker into the top of the book shop, whispering, “C’mon! C’mon!”

“J’eki came early to YAAAASS meeting!” he protests.

Drigoster doesn’t look up from cleaning his nails and remarks casually, “I don’t know why you are all so eager. Ondolemar snuck away to hide his love. Should we really be praising that?”

Arnis replies, “I’m grateful anytime someone does something.”

“I did something!” Byff announces.

“Oh?” Seryza says, the whole table leaning in with curiosity.

“I arranged an annuity for Nir,” he says proudly.

Arnis sits down and rubs his temples. Vyrshk mutters weakly, “I don’t think that’s what he had in mind.”

“She’ll be taken care of!” he protests, “And besides, we already ‘know’ each other, so what else is there for me to do?”

“What about actually telling Nir how much Byff loves her?” J’eki suggests.

“Er… Well… It’s complica-”

“I would _never_ subject Gynela to these _outrageuous_ hot-and-cold tactics!” Drigoster snaps.

“Mark this day on the calendar,” Seryza says facetiously, “Drigoster admitted his feelings without getting drunk or crying first.”

“When it is safe to speak of such things, I do!” he replies haughtily.

“Does it get dangerous?” Ondolemar chides.

“If she is flat out asking me, then yes, it could en _danger_ our relationship.”

The group chews on that for a moment. Only Vyrshk can find the words, “Uncle… Did... Did Gynela ask you how you felt about her?”

“Yes, earlier today, in fact.”

“And you said… no?” Byff replies, “She asked you and you lied about how you felt?”

“Of course I did!”

“I have _such_ a migraine,” Arnis groans.

“Hey,” Vyrshk says, slowly standing up in his chair so he can get a better glimpse out of the window, “The FAPS club just left the inn…”

“What?”

“Why?”

The curious elves rush to gather around the window to investigate. There was no apparent commotion at the inn, not visible from the street at least.

“J’eki only counts five of them.”

“Who’s missing?” Ondolemar asks, scanning the bustling group. He sees you and sighs with relief.

“Gynela,” Drigoster mutters. “Hmm… she was quite melancholy today.”

“I wonder why,” Seryza says standing back from the window so she can glower at him.

After a long pause, Drigoster muses aloud, “I think I may have made an error. Excuse me.”

The walk to back to the university is long, and with each passing minute he rues his error more and more. Though students and fellow professors try to stop him to chat, he brushes them all aside to walk to the dormitories. Although he’s only been to her room a few times, he know it well, for everything about Gynela is exceptional, even her door.

When Drigoster knocks, that door opens just a crack. Senickey peers out with one eye, incredulous. “What do _you_ want?”

“To apologize.”

She doesn’t budge. “Go on…”

“I’ve made a mess of things,” he confesses sheepishly, “Please, I need to talk to Gynela directly.”

“One moment,” she says, closing the door. He hears indistinct chatter and a moment later, Senickey opens the door fully. She doesn’t welcome him, but he steps into the small apartment anyways. The FAPS club watches him intently, all eyes harshly judging his every move. Gynela sits in her chair, one of the few things not packed away in her apparent haste to leave town.

He takes off his velvet hat and wrings it few times before he forces himself to say it:

“Gynela, I have been in love with you from the very first day we met. Perhaps I should have told you so before, but I refrained for various reasons which are as numerous as they are pointless. I don’t want to prolong this misunderstanding between us any longer, and besides, the tension is too much to bear. I wish to stress that your position within the university is entirely independent of what you feel and your answer, and I should like you to know that whatever happens between us in the future depends entirely on you.”

A moment passes, and Drigoster feels so foolish that he haphazardly slaps his cap back on and bows his head.

“Do you mean it?” she asks softly.

“I would marry you if I could.”

“Oh Drigoster! Really? Would you marry me on Fredas?”

He laughs, joyous, nervous, hopeful, “Yes! Yes I would!”

“Oh Drigoster!” she says, springing to her feet and tackling him with a hug. “I’m so happy!”

“I feared losing you for so long, and now you will be mine forever,” he says, barely believing it. He carefully strokes her hair until she peers up, and he can kiss her quickly.

The room bursts into cheers and then raced to the bookshop to announce the news. After their own supply of good wine is depleted in the celebrate, the clubs move back to The Silvermoon Inn to continue the celebration. Soon the place is packed with well-wishers and it’s-about-time-ers, all more than happy to buy rounds for the blushing couple. As the night wears on, and the drinks really start to flow, the inn becomes rowdy. Plenty of song, dancing, chattering and singing songs tuned to the occasion:

“ _There once was girl_

_so pretty and fair_

_and an old dark elf_

_with slick greasy hair_

_they danced and they danced_

_under the air_

_and wed at midnight_

_before a bear”_

The dark elves present were too drunk to mind the digs, singing loudly with the tavern:

“ _His worries were fleeting_

_Their bed need no heating_

_That old righteous mer_

_Ol’ Drigoster”_

Then the smith began his verse, loudly at first, until the front door opens and then two, then five Thalmor agents fill the inn. People look nervously, suspiciously, to Ondolemar and Byff, who straighten themselves as Ambassador Kry’thyne strides in. The once boisterous crowd is now quiet, waiting, leaving Ondolemar the only one with courage to speak.

“Ambassador,” he says with a polite nod.

Silence for two, long minutes. Neither Thalmor moves, for the slightest sway could indicate rudeness or resignation. The crowd silent shrinks to the wall, certain some magical duel is about to occur and still, the elves don’t move. You swear you might scream, just to make something, _anything_ happen, anything but this unbearable tension. Ambassador Kry’thyne scans the room, noting all the persons attending the celebration. He takes a breath, but before he can start, a deafening crack snaps twice as the center of the floor explodes into daedric ruins.

Panic and shrieks fill the space as the people now crush to the walls, onto tables, and out the door so their feet don’t touch the cursed space. An old woman faints as the heat in the room grows hot enough that the candles slump. An opening appears at the center of this ritual, an Oblivion gate that causes two more people to collapse with fear. From the narrow passage, a tall man steps out, the edges of his robes singed with the fires of Oblivion. As soon as both of his feet are on Nirn, the gate collapses, and the elf stands triumphant, unaware or uncaring that at least three strands of his hair were on fire.

“Jazan! You’re alive!” Ambassador Kry’thyne gasps. “Oh praise all the heavens, you’re alive!”

“I’d never disappoint you,” Jazan says with a wink before jumping up onto a table. Some edge closer to him, and still others make for the door but Jazan sweeps his arms, commanding everyone’s attention.

“Denizens of The Imperial City!” he announces. “I have discovered the terrible arson that plagued our friends, the Thalmor.”

“We know,” Kry’thyne says, stepping closer so he can delicately touch Jazan’s boot, to ensure the man is really there and alive.

“You do?”

“Yes. We found out two weeks ago. The ringleader’s name was Mux, and he and his co-conspirators were tried and executed by the public.” Jazan jumps down from the table, but the ambassador continues to ramble. “And- you’ve been gone! I had no way to tell you or know that you were okay-”

Jazan places his hands on Kry’thyne’s cheeks, and everyone there that night swore they were going to kiss, but Jazan only says, “I am okay.” before letting go and turning to the still-spooked crowd.

“The inn is packed tonight! What is the occasion that I will buy drinks for?”

“Miss Gynela is marrying Professor Drigoster,” Kry’thyne replies, clearly agitated at the prospect.

Jazan either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, grabbing his friend by the shoulder and pulling him close when he announces, “Two rounds on me and three for the lovely couple! It’s about time.”

The crowd cheers, and Jazan tosses his heavy coin purse to the bar keep. Some of the Thalmor leave, but Jazan ensures the ambassador drinks deeply and often. Eventually, Kry’thyne makes a rambling, drunken admission that he intended to prevent the wedding, but really, it’s a virtue to “spread the merish seed”. Luckily, not many people at the mercy of his rants understand Altmeri. Ondolemar and Byff carry the plastered ambassador back to Byff’s lodgings before he embarrasses the Thalmor further.

Once the ambassador is in bed, Ondolemar heads back to the inn to escort you home. To his relief, you’re walking with a big group.

“Hello!” you say brightly, clearly drunk but trying your best.

“Did you have fun?” he says.

“Yes! Too bad you had to leave so early! Jazan lead a singalong!”

“I’m sure it was quaint. Tell me, what task have you been assigned to?”

“I’m going to be baking tomorrow. It isn’t a wedding without food! What about you?”

“Writing invitations. Not really for inviting people, so much as appeasing egos.”

“Well, you have great handwriting.”

“It’ll be terribly boring, so feel free to come upstairs if you have the chance.”

You never had a chance. Ashamanu is in full form, micromanaging every detail in her impossible deadline. Even Ondolemar and Byff were harassed with the pace of their letter writing. Oddly, she doesn’t really seem to be doing much work herself.

It isn’t until nearly midnight that he finished the last of the list. You’ve been just laying on the bed, trying to make your head stop spinning.

“Did you see the package on my desk when you came in?” Ondolemar asks as he tries to flex his hands.

“I did. Who sent me a package?” you say, trying to remember all the friends you’ve made along the way.

“Aenydi.”

“Your… fiancee?” you say apprehensively.

“I don’t know any more than you do,” he admits.

When you pick up the package, you can feel the contents through the outer wrappings: it just felt like a small bundle of sheets. You wonder if this is some kind of don’t-touch-my-future-husband manifesto, and you have to make yourself unwrap it. Inside is twelve pages sewn together into a coverless book entitled _Falmer Fashions: the Style of the Snow People_ _by_ _Hrisskar of Atmora_ followed by a further subheading _Hand-_ _C_ _opied by_ _Lady Aenydi Fy’drasra, for private consumption._

Somewhat confused, you open the book. This was a lot of text for one person to copy; she must have worked on this for a few months. Not wanting to waste her hard work you open the first page and read.

_I record these thoughts for posterity so that when my kin inevitably scrub these creatures from the land, they are not entirely forgotten. An enemy forgotten is a victory lost._

_Firstly, to describe the Falmer in bodily appearance. They are a very tall people (if you can call them that). They’ve narrow hips and faces, all angle and no suppleness about them. Most have white hair and fair skin, though I’ve seen a few variations on the end of my sword._

_Allow me to clear up a misconception: they are born with those ears. I did not believe it myself until I saw a mother with babe in arms. Though it couldn’t have been older than six months, its ears were as sharp as its mother. The must use magic to keep them warm because they near seem to cover them._

You turn the page and find a small folded paper that had been surreptitiously inserted between the pages. You sense this is the true purpose of the package and open the letter.

_My good woman:_

_My name is Lady Aenydi Fy’drasra, the heir apparent of the Royal Archive. You also know me as Ondolemar’s fiancee-to-be to (we will not be officially engaged until Ondolemar returns to Summerset). I know humans are always curious about a mer’s age: I am four hundred and sixty-six as of last month._

_Allow me to come straight to the point: I have no intention of interfering with your situation. Truthfully it suits my designs perfectly. I need a Thalmor by my side at this the moment. My daughter is being courted and our great overlords have made things_ complicated, _to say the least._

_If I had my way, I would be with my dear, sweet songbird, the crown jewel of the opera house, Vosstisia, and I would not want you to suffer the same fate. And truly, I wish he be cared for (goodness knows he needs it), but I am saffyk and cannot give him the fullest attention no matter how much I may want to._

Aenydi had drawn an arrow from the word saffyk out to the right margin. Upon turning the paper, and squinting very hard, you read: _Ondolemar has told me you are well-informed on Al_ _t_ _meris (he erroneously refers to it as Al_ _d_ _meris,_ _as_ _most_ _Thalmor do_ _),_ _but I_ _have been_ _told I_ _use uncommon words_ _. Saffyk: saf- for look, -_ _f_ _yk for women, the_ _long f_ _indicate_ _s_ _“only”_ _(in this case)_ _. Sim._ _:_ _Saffrun, -frun, men_ _;_ _Saffryn, -fryn, no one_ _(_ _-_ _fryn_ _is only used in a conjugative_ _fashion_ _)_

You look back to the main body of the letter.

_Unfortunately, sensible Thalmor are in short supply, much less single ones. As of writing this letter, we are meeting with an an astrologer concerning Cosavava’s potential weddings. As an aspiring astrologer herself, she is putting great weight on this advice. With luck, it may only be a week before the feeding frenzy is over._

_I must stress that I have no romantic angle on this man. You may use this letter as proof as needed. I would prefer not to bring up the topic with anyone at all, of course, but I do not want the Thalmor to pillory you for adultery or some nonsense._

_With respect,_

_Lady Aenydi Fy’drasra_

_PS - My father has every intention of finding someone of a better breeding before you arrive. Even if it is a ruse, he would like it to look suitable_

_PPS - I hardly find it appropriate to speak of “breeding” to a stranger, but unfortunately my society is obsessed with the topic._

_PPPS - You may share this letter with Ondolemar if you wish, though we have already discussed such matters indirectly._

Somehow she manages to fit in one more in the last of the space on the page.

_PPPPS – Ondolemar tells me that you read a multi-volume series about the Falmer. Please share the title with me!_

When you finally look up from the letter, your face feels hot. Adultery. But, you suppose you sort of knew that all along. Adultery…

“What did it say?” Ondolemar asks uneasily, sensing your disquiet.

“She really knows how to use up a piece of paper!” you remark, overly cheerful. “We should get some rest before tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day.”

“Is everything okay…?”

The bedroom door flies open and Ashamanu stands in its frame, looking disheveled and furious, “Go! To! _Sleep!!_ ”

“Yes mistress. I’m leaving now,” you say quietly, hurrying to the servants’ passage so quickly that you leave the hand-copied book behind.

Ondolemar wished you left the note. He reads over Aenydi’s copy, hoping to find a hint to your displeasure. Nothing lie in those pages but author anecdotes and anti-mer crap. He was certain Aenydi took every care not to offend you, but… He tossed and turned in his brief sleep, fearful he would miss the opportunity to catch you early and ask you what upset you.

You must have somehow slipped in during the fitful sleep because all og his clothes were in order when he woke, and you were gone. He certainly does not want to bring down the house’s mood on such a happy day, but his mind is totally preoccupied with thoughts of you.

He hoped he would be able to speak with you before the service, but you didn’t sit down until the last moment. Knowing you would be annoyed if he interrupted Mara’s sermon, he moves to take your hand, but you pull it away, perhaps too shy to do anything so bold in public, or perhaps irritated with him. As soon as the nuptials were over, you, Vyrshk and Nir race out of the chapel to go back to work.

Drigoster’s house has a small backyard which is resplendent with flowers and the music. Ondolemar sits at a long table with his peers, but you’re forced to ferry rich food, and fill wine glasses. Once the feasting is over, the dishes are cleared and the table is moved aside so that the dancing, drinking, and mingling can begin.

Unable to stand your disapproval any longer, Ondolemar excuses himself from the polite conversation and searches for you. After inquiring with the other servants, Ondolemar finds you in the stable where you had your first riding lesson. Through the windows he sees you with Betty, petting her muzzle, murmuring to yourself: “I just don’t know…”

When he calls your name, your emotions freeze and sink under a dull expression of indifference.

“Yes sir?”

“Please,” he starts, hoping you would drop the act.

“I’ll get back to work,” you say, picking up your skirts.

“That’s not- Please.” You pause. “Ever since last night, you have been most upset with me and I wish to know what.”

“Simply something I already knew coming to light,” you reply cryptically.

“Perhaps it will bring you some relief to share your troubles?” he says, his eyes pleading for you to look up at him.

“It’s just never going to happen, is it?” you snap back.

“What?”

“Us, being a proper couple,” you say. True, your lonely mind had jumped sixteen steps ahead of the letter, but you couldn’t start at the beginning when your thoughts were so fixed on the end. “Even if I was a noble, even if you weren’t already engaged-”

“Technically-”

“I am talking!”

“You’re right,” he whispers, “Sorry, keep going.”

“The Thalmor,” you state plainly, gesturing to the symbol on his belt. “It’s important enough to you that I shouldn’t want you to leave it...”

After waiting a moment, Ondolemar speaks, “I simply need to find the right circumstances to depart. Seryza left at the end of the war, when things were chaos. Surely, she does not openly own her past. Runil slipped into obscurity due to the nature of his assignment. If not for their tactics, the Thalmor would have hunted them down, and indeed still do in Runil’s case.”

“So it’s hopeless…” you murmur, tears starting to well into your eyes, “At best, I can be your secret mistress.

“No,” he states flatly, approaching you with much more gentleness. “Aenydi has made every indication to me that she approves and knows about our relationship. That is far from a clandestine affair. She ultimately _wants_ us to marry- if that is something you desire, of course, not to say that I’m that forward thinking or anything.”

“It’s fine,” you say with a shrug, “I know that even if all of these things were different…” you reach up and touch your ear, “If only _I_ were different.”

Ondolemar takes both your hands in his and leads you out of the stable, so the cool night can surround you and clear you mind. You look up at him finally, your lips quivering, and he knows there is no better time to share his verse with you.

“If you were born differently

you would be differently

The most perfect image

Of Mara’s love

At best, a reflection

If I could change your form in the dawn,

I wouldn’t

and I couldn’t

For what greater sin is there

But to mar perfection?

If only I could cast myself to the sun

the impurities

burned away

so that none may flaw you

or meet your objection

If only I could present you to Auri-El

He’d order time

to give you joy

no pain to dull you

not a single dejection

If only I could set you in a castle

with the fine food

many books

long rests, good talks,

and every refection

If only I could have your love truly

I’d hold it dearly

guard it fearfully,

and bask always

in your ardent affection.

For my love is a reflection

Of your loving perfection

Your pain is my objection

Your sadness, my dejection

Your happiness, my refection

Forevermore, I give my affection.”

“Oh Ondolemar!” you whimper, you knees almost buckling. Luckily, he catches you and holds you close. “Oh, I’ve never heard something so _romantic!”_

“I am glad you liked it!” he says, with a happy sigh of relief.

“I loved it!”

“Then I must set about writing you another poem immediately!” he says. Now that you’ve finally squeezed your eyes, one of those tears from your waterline falls, and Ondolemar brushes it aside. “I wish our circumstances were not so complicated, but if they weren’t as they are, we never would have met each other. I may not know every step we shall take, but I promise you we shall be together forevermore. My heart belongs to you and you alone.”

“Oh Ondolemar!” you say, springing up on your toes so you can kiss him. Public or not, he happily obliges, and then holds you to hopefully absorb any residual sadness lurking in your body.

When he finally breaks apart, Ondolemar asks, “Will you come back to the reception then? I know Gynela was looking for you.”

“Oh, I feel so terrible, wallowing in my own sadness on her happy day. All over an assumption I made.”

“If we had a Septim for every time I made an assumption, we’d have estate!” he says. You laugh at that. “There’s that beautiful smile.”

“Let us take a long walk back, so I do not look like I was crying.”

He offers you his arm, which you take. “When you return would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

“Yes! Yes I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!


	22. Upon Leaving the Imperial City

Ondolemar half-suspects you picked up work around the inn to keep your mind from the friends you were forced to leave behind in Imperial City. He himself spent an entire morning reading and writing official documents just to fend off the ache of wanting to talk to someone a day’s ride away. Though he relishes the quiet of the countryside, he misses always having trustworthy companions to speak to on any issue. Alas, the embassy was near evicting him from the city, and he did not wish to breed an ill will that would prevent your return.

He gives up on his book after rereading the same passage three times to no effect. Cyrod magic never interested him, but the extra pain of remembering Arnis so brightly smiling when gifting the text… Ondolemar needed a distraction that didn’t remind him of the very thing he needed distracting from. You will likely be gone another two hours, at least, so he must search the room for some other form of entertainment.

The only other books present are yours: _Poisons as Cures_ and _The Falmer, Their Culture, and The Tale of Their Only Surviving Offspring, Volume_ _3_ _._ He considers the choices and acquiesces that living in Markarth did foster a _little_ curiosity about the Snow Elves, a race so fallen their souls are not even considered black. It would be a puzzling thing if it happened to a race of man, a but mer? If leaving Summerset to worship daedra in the mountains is insanity, then what could Ondolemar make of a race becoming absolutely feral… Perhaps this text could illuminate the issue.

Besides, you sold back almost every volume in the series except a few, and volume three is so well-read there is a crack in the spine, so it has to be worth a look. Jumping in will robs him of the context of this research project, an important part of of any academic text, for it gives the reader a chance to assess the writer’s bias. However, he should be able to follow the narrative easily enough; the first volume is typically a ledger of expenses and describing the patrons and the researchers.

As expected, the text reads more like a personal adventure than a list of Snow Elf events and facts. As far as he can tell, the head of research is a Snow Elf knight named Gelethor who has a vague nobility, probably better described in volume one. His assistant is a female human squire who is currently locked in a magical sleep of one hundred years, as tends to happen in these research situations. For that century, Gelethor desperately fights to get to his partner, but spends the better part of fifty pages being hampered by various calamities that are befalling the Snow Elves, who are in the middle of their struggle against the human invaders.

Gelethor finally reaches the chamber where his love has been resting on the last day of her curse. She wakes just as he reaches out to touch her face, and she leaps forward to fall into his arms, untouched by the passage of time in mind and body. After they kiss deeply, Gelethor explains what has happened to her, waffling between apologies and explanations. The woman weeps, knowing all of her family and friends have passed. Gelethor holds her for a long moment, and then (politely) suggests that she bathe in the hot springs of Skyrim to cleanse her mind (and wash off a century of stink).

As Ondolemar turns the page, he sees the word “nipple”, and immediately skips ahead to figure out what context could possibly explain it. Academic texts can allude to intercourse between figures but they are never explicit- or! Or! Or describing a man’s penis down to the _veins!!_ Ondolemar gasps, but he’s unable to stop reading. This isn’t an academic text at all! _The Falmer, Their Culture, and The Tale of Their Only Surviving Offspring_ is a- a- _dirty book!_

You read this right front of him! With a straight face! _More than once!_ But most particularly that night in the wagon when you slept right next to him!! And! You meant to read it tonight too! That means… Ondolemar begins studying the smut carefully, trying to take notes, but some of these things were hard to read, not because they were violent or strange but so… _lewd!_

After the characters put their clothes back on, Ondolemar quietly closes the book, puts it back in its place, and folds his hands. He probably stared at the desk for an hour just… thinking it over in its entirety... The broken spine of the book marks the naughty parts eluding to… you… holding the book with just… one… hand.

Of course he understood all along that you might have been interested in sex, but part of him always discounted that as part of the lustful stereotype elves foisted onto humans to degrade them. But then, _he_ was interested in sex. But then, you never brought it up. But then, neither had he. He supposes the biggest thing his mind cannot wrap itself around is the idea that _you_ _might_ _want to have sex with him...!!_

“Hello!” you say, stepping into the room after an afternoon of errands.

“Hello!” Ondolemar says, scrambling to get out his journal as to not at all arouse suspicion. “How were you errands?”

“Good! One of the vendors gave me a feather!” you say, holding it up for him.

“That looks like a hawk’s feather! That’s a good alchemy ingredient.”

“Oh good!” you say as you cross the room. “I know a few recipes that could use one, but right now I just want to relax.”

“Get a bit of reading in!” Ondolemar says awkwardly, as you reach over him to pluck the very book that occupies his mind. You walk over to the bed, sit down on the end, and open the book the place where the spine is broken.

“I need air!” Ondolemar announces and promptly leaves the room without pausing to put away his journal.

Ondolemar steps out into the air and decides to walk as far away from people as possible to collect his thoughts. He feels like all the Khajiiti traders around the tavern just _know_ he’s thinking dirty things, so he ducks into the forest of the West Weald, hoping to outrun their stares.

Ondolemar is startled to find an elf sitting below a tree, and almost contemplates turning right around, but that would be _even more_ suspicious, so he stops in his tracks and waits for the other man to say something.

“There’s a nice breeze today,” the Altmer says calmly. “What’s your name, friend?”

“Ondolemar, High Justiciar,” he replies stiffly.

“Earar, book seller.”

“Oh!-”

“Before you get excited, the only book I have is _The Falmer, Their Culture, and The Tale of Their Only Surviving Offspring_ series.”

“That book is haunting me,” Ondolemar says under his breath.

“Let me guess, you have a lady friend that absolutely loves the series?” Earar says dryly. “Unrealistic crap, if you can forgive my oath. I’m the editor so I have the _privilege_ of reading all the transcripts.”

“How’d you get pulled into that enterprise?”

“Last venture I backed crumbled, so the big boss man put me on this one.”

“It’s commercially successful, at least,” Ondolemar says.

“Well… Let me explain a few things to you about the publishing business.”

Ondolemar sits and listens to the account, which is more interesting than any business should be. Tales of arguments with bookbinders and conspiracies at paper mills are the perfect distraction for Ondolemar’s frazzled mind, and soon evening slips over the horizon.

“We’ve been out here some time!” Ondolemar remarks as his stomach grumbles. “Perhaps we should take dinner.”

“The inn has wonderful food,” Earar says warmly.

“I can smell Khajiiti honey cakes-”

“Trust me, the inn is the way to go.”

Ondolemar has something of a personal policy about eating Khajiiti food far before indulging in the stale trappings of Cyrodiil, and a stronger one regarding being interrupted. Even still, he decides to trust his new friend and follow him into the inn, which feels warm and inviting despite his initial disgust at the cleanliness. Indeed, the food is the best he’s had in _ages_ with the conversation only grows more interesting with time.

At some point, you make an appearance, but Ondolemar unintentionally shuts you out as his mind lands on topics you can’t participate in. He does mention Earar’s link to your favorite series, but soon they’re on the topic of Earar life in Summerset. He’s apparently from very traditional family out in the country, a lifestyle almost foreign to Ondolemar, which only intrigues him more. He had only heard of some of the practices in books, but Earar spoke with the sort of daily familiarity of harvest rituals and ancient tales a _real_ scholar would be delighted to hear.

At some point in the conversation the bar keep leans in and says, “Gentleman, you’re free to stay, but I must ask that you keep your volume to a minimum as guests are sleeping.”

Ondolemar breaks from his trance, looking around the inn to realize everyone, even the local drunk, are fast asleep. He doesn’t even remember you leaving, but you’re nowhere to be found. He remarks, “How late is it?”

“Oh you know humans,” Earar replies, “They sleep for forever. It’s been such a long time since I’ve had such good conversation and I would hate to stop it now.”

Ondolemar can’t remember if there were other elves in the bar…

Earar adds, “Let us step outside and continue our conversation, so as to not disturb anyone.”

Ondolemar agrees, although… it sort of feels like his body is moving independent of his mind. He knows he didn’t drink _that_ much, yet, his thoughts feel strange and murky as they circle around some incredibly pertinent but hazy idea.

“Wait,” Ondolemar says, his heels digging in as he realizes they are not simply taking a few steps outside, but are now close to the grove where they first met.

“What?” Earar asks, his face hidden by the moonslight behind him.

Ondolemar tries to think through his thought, but he feels his mind folding under his new friend’s intense gaze. “I- I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Earar replies calmly, “I think to many people expect a mer to know everything, as if a few centuries of life grant one omniscience.”

“Yeah,” Ondolemar laughs nervously. He wants to turn around. He wants to look away. He wants to call on magic _so badly_ but he’s frozen, entranced, paralyzed.

“You know, I really didn’t hate those books at first,” Earar says, “but after I met the author, I realized it’s just a fetish to her. It’s all ear rubs and lanky bodies. They don’t see us. They don’t understand.”

Ondolemar knows that Earar’s magic is needling through his insecurities, crippling his will to fight. He knows the remark about being thin is another dig, another claw holding him captive, but he can’t shake it off. He can’t move. Ondolemar whimpers, “Help me” quietly but he knows it’s too late. Earar looks to the side, his eyes… his blood red eyes.

Ondolemar struggles to take one step backward, those red eyes lock onto him and stop even the thought.

“Don’t you want to be loved?” Earar asks, tearing at Ondolemar’s deepest hurt to lock his prey in place. “Don’t you want someone to understand you?”

Tears fall down Ondolemar’s face as he whispers your name.

“Don’t worry,” Earar whispers, fangs growing long, “You won’t remember anything.”

Then there was clang! that defeaned Ondolemar and broke the vampire’s gaze. In that split second, he flung himself back, the wind from the passing shovel brushing his face before he falls flat on his ass. You had somehow worked your way around Earar and are now beating him with a shovel until you are certain the vampire is dead and the night watch can finish the job.

“Ondolemar,” you say, throwing the shovel aside and collapsing into his arms. “Thank Mara’s _grace_ you’re okay.”

“How did you know…?”

“The series was written at the beginning of the third era, and that’s a long time, even for an elf,” you answer. “I asked the innkeeper to keep an eye on that man. When you went outside, he ran upstairs and told me what happened. I grabbed the shovel and resolved to strike down any beast that meant to harm you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you say, squeezing his arms, “It could have very easily been me.”

“I’m just so… dumb,” he replies, tears now streaming down his face. “None of this would have happened if I had just talked to you about… things.”

“Peace, Ondolemar, no one is perfect, not even you,” you say with a bright smile. “Come, you need water and rest.”

“The vampire…”

“The night watch is wasting no time in burning the thing to ash. Look, they’ve already built a pyre.”

Just as Ondolemar looked over through his tears, a guard shouts, “Hey elf! You mind lighting ‘er up?”

Ondolemar closes his eyes, the absurdity of humans for once bringing levity instead of ire. He obliges them with an inferno hot enough to turn the little wood they gathered to nothingness in mere seconds, and the body was up nearly as quick. The act exhausted him more than it should have; Ondolemar fell asleep as soon as he was in bed.

In the morning Ondolemar wakes to a cup of oily tea and a biscuit for his troubles. You sit on the bed and put your hand on his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just got over the flu,” he says with a sigh. “How are you?”

“Fairly good,” you say, admitting, “Except that I’m a bit worried.”

“Worried?”

“Well… Yesterday you told me ‘this wouldn’t have happened if I just talked to you’, and I can’t figure out what you meant.”

“I… Well, I’m just- the truth is,” he stammers, but he knows he can hide from it no longer. “I would like you to know that I desire, but not require… … intimacy with you, in whatever fashion you see fit, not that I presume that you want such a thing simply because you’re human.”

“Are you telling me elves tell each other that humans are lustful?”

“I mean _I_ don’t believe that!”

You laugh and assure him, “Don’t worry! Humans say the same thing about elves! So… do you have anything in mind when it comes to intimacy?”

“No! Nothing except what you would like,” he replies defensively.

“And I would like what you like in turn. Intimacy like… touching more often?” you ask, putting your hand on his. “Or intimacy like… sex?”

“I don’t know that I would want to have sex in a place like _this_ ,” he grumbles, kicking the sheets a bit so he can sneer at the faded stains.

“Where would you want to have sex?”

He contemplates not answering at all, but eventually decides he will never have the nerve to bring up the subject again. “If it would be sufficiently private and to your liking maybe, when we bathe… we could bathe together… and see from there.”

“We have similar ideas,” you say as Ondolemar’s whole being is covered in blush.

“You- You’ve thought about it?”

“Back in Markarth, I’d always think about what would’ve happened if I opened that green glass door while you were bathing.”

“You… fantasized about me when we were in Markarth?”

Surprised by his stunned state, you reply, “...Yeah? Since day one, really.”

“Define day one,” he says, folding his arms.

“The day I met you.”

“The day-”

“In the dining hall. I was a drink server, filling in for Hursk.”

“I _thought_ you were smiling at me a lot…”

“You could cut the sexual tension with a knife, if we’re being honest. Although, we were steeped in denial those days.”

“But tension?! I’ll admit I wanted to breed you into next week-”

“Breed me into next week?!” you whisper, swatting his arm, “Ondolemar!”

“But there was no sexual tension,” he protests.

“You are not moving passed that ‘breed you into next week’ comment so easily!”

“Theoretically! I’m sure after awhile I would like to get some air-”

“You want to put your child in me!”

“Someday, yes, but we have many things to do before that.”

“Well of course,” you reply matter-of-factly. “So I must know, were you… _enjoying_ yourself in that bathtub while I read to you?”

“No! Not in the personal and private sense you imply with your tone.”

“When you went to bed?”

“…Sometimes. Like you don’t!”

“I never denied it,” you reply with sass.

Ondolemar mulls over everything you just said, muttering, “All this time…”

“I always thought I wasn’t good enough for you.”

“I was trying to convince myself that,” Ondolemar says slumping somewhat. “I was just convinced… I don’t know… that it wasn’t right to feel this way about a human, because you’ll die, or you’re breeding is low, or a million things that I now know hardly matter. I wish… Well, it’s odd. If I had never thought that way, I would have never been part of the Thalmor, never gone to Markarth, never met you, but now because of it, we’re in this whole mess about me going to Summerset to marry someone else.

“And I would like to say, though I hardly think it makes up for things… that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you feel so poorly, and frankly, I’m ashamed of myself for it. If I could go back in time I would notch my own ears, I swear it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” you assure him. “And frankly, it makes me feel better for all the strange things I’ve thought about you. We’ve spent our whole lives stewing in the lies our peoples told us. We’re not the same, that is certain, but elves and humans… aren’t that different.”

“No, not really,” he concedes. “I feel like they are two travelers approaching life from the opposite direction.”

“That really sums it up beautifully,” you say, squeezing his hand.

But his mind will not leave the ever present, ever pressing issue, so he muses aloud, “Part of me just wants to run off and forget the Thalmor and all this… stuff, but, I don’t know where we would go, or how I would support you. Travel is hard, and without the Thalmor paying our expenses… And truthfully, I do wish to see my family one last time before I am cast out of it all.”

“I want you to be with your family too,” you say, “My family is long gone, and I would hate to rob you of a good-bye.”

“Thank you…” he says, bring your hand to his lips to kiss it tenderly, “for putting up with me. I know I’ve been difficult to say the least. I…

“Fearing what I feel

I shrugged off real

To hide from what?

But my black heart cut

Draining out the bile

Thoughts I now revile

Compassion in drought

Devout in cold doubt

Feeling through my fear

Heart and mind clear

Accepting this true

New light, that is you”

“Oh Ondolemar! Will you write that down for me?”

“If you really think it is good enough.”

“Of course!” you say, scrambling up to get paper and quill for him. Ondolemar happily copies it into your diary, even signing and dating it as a show of faith. You immediately reread it and then hold it to your chest, apparently impressed by his modest, impromptu poetry. Among the many kisses you give him, his mind finally relents, and lets hope plant its seed. Someday, someday, _a family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience!
> 
> AO3 finally got rid of commenting. No more stress for meeeeeeeee though I do appreciate the nice things people have said along the way. However, getting into an argument with someone about how it "was almost perfect" or some grammar error just takes the winds out of one's sails.
> 
> as an aside, when I copy and paste this from libreoffice, for some reason, not all the spaces transcribe. I don't know why. I look back, the spaces are there in the og text. It's easy to catch when it's whichis because of the red squiggly, but Ondolemaris gets missed because Ondolemar is always going to have a read squiggly in my browser. If I go back and reread everything already published to fix all the errors, I'll get super depressed and never wanna write again so you're just gonna have to deal with a text that was only looked over four or five times before publishing.


	23. Bathing

Lunch has been… tense… You decided to picnic beside a cool, clear pond, which practically begs to be used, seeing that neither of you have bathed since the Imperial City. The forest cloaks you from the sight of the road, perfect for getting clean, but the implication of what other activity could be cloaked remains a heavy question in the air.

“Well…” Ondolemar says, then pausing long enough for the breeze to punctuate his statement. “I would like to get clean.”

“Me too,” you reply, glancing between him and the pond.

“It probably wouldn’t be safe for you to bathe without someone watching you…” he states, trying to bat down the blush.

“You can watch me.”

“I can do that,” he answers, voice catching in his suddenly dry throat.

“We don’t have _to_ ‘do anything’, if you don’t want to,” you add.

“I- I would be okay with seeing how things progress, if the water is not too cold.”

“Okay,” you answer, “We’ll play it by ear.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Another breeze passes through the West Weald Forest.

“Okay,” Ondolemar repeats. “So how should we go about this?”

“Well, if you go first, I can wash your uniform while you bathe.”

“Oh.”

“What were you thinking?”

His gaze shifts around nervously, “I was under the impression we were going to bath _together.”_

“We can do that!” you say. “We can absolutely do that. I’ll get the soap.”

“Do you still want me to… go first?”

Feeling a bit shy, you nod. Ondolemar stands and waits for something, but nothing happens except the wind and you digging into the saddlebag to find the soap. He takes a deep breath, walks over to the high rushes, pauses a moment, and sheds his gloves. At first, undressing is no issue; you’ve certainly seen him in less than his full uniform. Even the linen shirt is fine, but his pants…? With you now looking on, clutching the soap, it takes him a long time to finally muster up the courage and pull off his last shred of modesty.

You can’t help but _stare,_ wide-eyed, utterly stunned. Every inch of Ondolemar is so uncommonly handsome, it’s a _sin_ that he wears so many clothes at all times. His golden hair glows from the sun filtering through the trees, from his head, to his chest to his...

Ondolemar splashes water on his face (trying to control his nerves), and your gaze follows the droplets as they fall down his well-hewn forearms. He has a very svelte figure, but he’s not as delicate as some might think, every inch of him lean muscle, marked by the occasional battle scar. As if knowing how intently you study him, he turns away from you, showing you his etched back with muscles you didn’t even know existed.

“Are you going to join me?” he calls over his shoulder.

“I…”

Of course you want to, but frankly you’re intimidated by his perfect, elven physique.

“You surely know the way to make a man self-conscious.” When you spring into action, he adds, “I did not say that to pressure you!”

“I think I need a little pressure,” you reply as you enter the rushes to undress yourself.

His intense gape makes you shrink into the reeds, and Ondolemar realizes his stare is making you uncomfortable so he turns away as if cleaning his fingernails is the apex of his concerns. Still, he watches from his peripheral vision, a shudder filling him when he glimpses your bare shoulders. Just the sound of you entering the water is enough to make his manhood stand tall, the cold water doing nothing to discourage the stance.

“Here’s the soap,” you say quietly.

When he glances over his shoulder, you’re crouched into the water so low that your chin touches the water, while he only submerged to his waist. He takes the bar from your hand without fully facing you, and awkwardly washes his hands first while you remain hidden in the water, your arms crossed over your chest.

“Would you like me to wash your hair?” he asks.

“I would love that!” you answer enthusiastically, partly because it’s been over a year since you last washed your hair, and partly because you could stand fully in the water without worrying about your own physique being compared to his perfection.

The last time you had washed your hair, Skjorta would have laid your hair on a stone so she could scrub it like a pair of britches. Ondolemar is gentle, working through each tress carefully from root to tip. He’s thorough, not missing a single strand, and massaging your scalp and neck so deeply you can feel a decade of knots finally releasing. He hands you the soap and cups his hands over your ears before using magic to coax the water over your hair until the run off is clear. His fingers travel through your hair once more, just to check that all the soap is gone from your hair.

“How was that?” he asks.

“That felt so good...”

“Can I wash the rest of you?” he says as his hands curls around your arms to take back the bar.

“Yes please,” you say, opening your hand. His fingertips brush your palm as he takes the soap back, and begins slowly working up and around your arm to your back.

“Your back feels so stiff,” he murmurs as his fingers push into the flesh, working the muscles slowly.

“It feels good when you touch it,” you reply, a statement that made his fingers pause before continuing up you sides and around to your stomach (though his hips remain arched backwards so as to not alert you to his alertness). His soapy hands slides up your middle but then stop awkwardly before he can brush against your breasts.

“You can touch there,” you say, taking a step backwards and feeling something stiff brush against your back. You whirl around and look straight into the water, directly at his hard cock. Ondolemar tries to twist his legs, but nothing can hide what you’ve already seen.

“Please say something,” he finally pleads.

“That’s- I didn’t think elves had such _thick_ cocks!” you state plainly, still trying to process the mere idea of his dick.

“Is that good?”

“Very good,” you answer, finally finding the will to tear your eyes away from it.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you say, sneaking another glance. It was not the sort of cock that raised logistical concerns, but you surely hope he as is patient with washing hair as he is with sex.

“Well then,” he says, supposing it would not hurt to give you a once over and tuck away the thought for later.

After remembering his task, he lathers the bar between his hands, and then traces your collarbone. He stops at your chest again, but you put your hands on his and gently guide them down, delighting in how his eyes widen with the intensity of a thousand suns. He’s enamored for a long moment, palms slowly making circles so he can feel the full shape.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” you tease.

He blinks several times as if to break the hypnotic spell and stammers a bit before saying, “Give me your leg so I can wash it too.”

“Perhaps we should go in shallower water?” you say, since what is waist-high to him would require an impressive stretch to you.

He agrees and you slowly wade out, his cock now fully exposed and his testicles! You never expected to be so captivated by a man’s testicles! But his are so nice, full and somewhat tight. You want to reach out and touch them, but you decide to wait until you’re washing him.

You lift your leg from the water, and Ondolemar takes it, but sensing your wobble, says, “You can hold on it me.”

This put your sex quite close to his, so his internal monologue becomes: _“Washing her leg, washing her leg, washing the leg, leg, leg, leg”_ as if trying to block out the pleas that his dick is sending to his brain. When you switch legs, you shift your hips, moving yourself ever closer. The moments are tense, each wondering if it would happen now, if they should say something, torn between looking anywhere but each other and just blatantly gawking at the others parts.

Finally, Ondolemar can gently place your leg back in the water and you can both breathe.

He finally says, “Perhaps you should wash your……?” but he can’t even bring himself to say a euphemism for vagina.

“I could show you how,” you say shyly, “Or would you rather wait?”

“I want to know…” he replies, fingers nervously drumming on the bar.

“Okay, then you will only need a little bit of soap, so give me that.”

His absolute alertness and studious expression are so endearing that it puts you at ease.

“Now, there is one, big rule here,” you say as you guide his hand down, “Nothing inside. You don’t put soap in your mouth, so you don’t put it in my vagina!”

“No soap inside,” he repeats to himself, making a mental note.

“Now, go down the center…” you say, taking his hand to guide it through your curls, though his fingers arc away the moment he touches your sex. “You can touch it. I’ll make sure you don’t go inside.”

“Okay.”

“You’re trembling… Do you want to sto-”

“No!” he says a bit too enthusiastically. “I- I just- don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t. Now make sure you get between all the folds. Just start at the left and go up and down slowly and you’ll find them all.”

His fingers are so soft and thin, delicately tracing the edges and making the breath leave your chest at times.

“Up here too?” he says.

“Yes, and up here t- t- too.”

“Is that your…” he asks as his fingers circle the sensitive place.

“Yes… B- B- But,” and this took all the will you had, “I need to rinse off. It’s all too sensitive to leave soap on for long.”

“Oh! Right!” he says, face burning as he traces back down. “Did I miss anything?”

“Don’t forget the outside too.”

“Okay!” he answers, put at ease to be dealing with the much more resilient lips.

“You did good,” you say, wading into the deeper water to rinse off thoroughly.

“I hope so! I want to be good to you!”

“You are. Should I wash you now? You’ll have to kneel if I’m to do your hair.”

Your levity is much appreciated and Ondolemar obliges your request, squatting in the water so you can lather his blonde locks.

“Your hair is just the most beautiful color,” you say.

“Really? I think it blends in too well with the color of my skin…”

“Your skin is a beautiful color as well… It reminds me of the sun. I like your shoulders too. Is that strange? You’re just so handsome I don’t think I could dislike any part of you.”

“Oh! No, I- Well, I’m sure to a human I look fine-”

“Ondolemar,” you state firmly with his thin locks in hand, “Now, I know don’t have your eyes, but I have met a few elves in my time, and none are as handsome as you.”

“It’s simply a fact,” he protests. “My shoulders are uneven, and always have been.”

“Would a tree perfectly symmetrical be beautiful? No, I think not. I much prefer these things around us, which grew to survive, and are handsome for it.”

He pauses, almost ready to defend his low opinion of himself, but finding his heart unable to reject you. “Thank you for being so kind to me.”

“You deserve care and affection,” you says as you scoop water onto his head to rinse out his hair. “And frankly, I think you need it.”

“It’s a scary thing, though, to need lo- care.”

“Oh Ondolemar…” you reply, circling to the front so you can wash out the rest, “How long has it been since someone looked after your heart?”

“I’ve… never had anyone. I know that must sound pathetic, being over a century old.”

“Ah but a century is only like being thirty for your kind, and that is not so bad.”

“No, it’s not,” he replies sternly, “An elf who is forty is just as a human that is forty. They are not a child, or a teenager. They’ve had the same amount of life experience. Humans tend to make these equivalencies but they’re just, inaccurate.”

“Hmm… I guess I never really thought of it like that,” you say.

“It’s a common misconception,” he mutters.

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m learning though. And I still don’t think it bad to go a long while without having been intimate with someone.”

He takes a deep breath to relax himself, and replies, “The fact that you are willing to look at me like a person makes all the difference. I’ve worried that you saw me like some sort of… I don’t know, not a demi-god, but something above what I really am, if that makes sense.”

“I did, and sometimes I do. You are amazing with magic.”

“I’m really not.”

“Ondolemar! I think the most surprising thing I’m learning about you is how little confidence you have in yourself! You spun Meridia’s holy fire like it was flax!”

He looks around, leans over and whispers, “I need to tell you something you cannot tell anyone.”

Appreciating his sudden sternness, you nod solemnly, “On my soul.”

He leans in closely, and whispers in your ear, “I’m self-taught… a hedge-mage”

The remark means little to you, but it’s clear that means the world to him, so you gather a thoughtful reply, “I think that bolsters your achievements!”

But stuck in the mud of self-deprecation, the words barely reach him. “That’s why I burned the bottoms of my feet in the fire. I told everyone else that I simply panicked, but quite frankly, I never considered warding beneath me.”

“I think you should focus on what you’ve done well…” you say, rubbing his chest with soap. “You’re a very accomplished man, whether you give yourself the credit or not, so you might as well!”

“Thank you,” he replies, “You’re a wonderful woman. I don’t know how I was so lucky to find someone so patient and caring to pry me apart. It’s… difficult to unravel one hundred and three years, and yet, you do it so easily.”

You stretch up to your tip-toes, and Ondolemar leans down so you can kiss him tenderly.

You answer, “I don’t know how I was so lucky to find such a handsome and talented man, but I’m happy that I did.”

“I never thought you would find me handsome. I hardly compare to the men of Markarth.”

“But these scars!” you say, tracing a particularly long but faded one on his chest. “I think the men of Markarth would have liked you even more… the women too.”

“Even more?”

Before you can reply, a twig cracking shatters the intimate moment. Both of your shrink into the water and whirl around to face a bandit who has been caught collecting your clothes. Ondolemar throws a haphazard bolt of ice, but the bandit ducks it and takes off into the woods while the elf slogs through the water, making slow progress despite his dead sprint.

“That’s my only dress!” you gasp.

“That’s my only uniform! You have to come with me!”

“What?! Are you insane!?”

“You can’t stay here naked and alone!” he protests.

You wish he wasn’t right, and you really wish you didn’t have to sprint through the woods barefoot and clutching yourself as Ondolemar catches up to the thief. Your shorter strides are quick to fall behind, but you catch up when the bandit ducks into a cave. Ondolemar stands at the entrance, nude and still dripping wet before he summons a warm breeze to dry both of you off.

“What do we do?” you ask, dry but shivering in the shade of the trees. The only garment left behind is a slip that you managed to collect, but it’s better than nothing.

“I have to go in,” he says, “and I suspect there are more of them inside.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

“Most likely, yes.”

“Good! Goodness knows how long he was peeping. Do you think there are a lot of them?” you say as you smooth out the slip.

“Hmm…” Ondolemar casts a detect life spell. “I see four.”

“Four?!”

“That’s not so many for a mage as skilled as me,” he says with a wink and a smile. “But stay here and hide in the bush. They are waiting for me, and I don’t want you to be harmed.”

“I want a kiss before you go!” you say suddenly, anxiety crippling you despite knowing he could easily take them.

“And I will give you one when I return,” he replies, kissing you before ducking into the cave.

Not a minute after he walks in, you hear bolts of magic and screams, and within five minutes Ondolemar returns for you, making good on his promise and kissing you once more.

“I cannot detect anyone else,” he states, “living or dead. I believe one of them slipped out through a secret passage I found, but he is long gone.”

“Yay! I can dress again!”

“Well… come with me.”

The cave starts narrowly and opens to a main chamber with a few cots and a cooking pot over a low fire. A table is strewn with miscellaneous food and cutlery, and there is a pile of garbage in the opposite corner. The only other thing of note is a large, steel chest, locked with a steel lock.

“I imagine our clothes are in there,” you say, stepping over a pile of ash and leather armor.

“It’s locked,” Ondolemar says, “I think the one who absconded has the key.”

“Well let’s check the others’ pockets at least,” you say.

After five minutes where each of you searched each person’s pockets, you both meet in the main chamber empty-handed.

“Damn it!” Ondolemar says, looking around the chamber. “If I had my mace, I could break the lock... What are you doing?”

“...picking the lock?” you say. “Every bandit keeps at least one lockpick.”

“Picking the lock,” he repeats, somewhat stunned you even knew the first thing about it. The lock is made of steel, meaning it is not easily forced by an amateur, and yet… You yank down on the padlock, which is now free from its bar.

“You can pick locks?!”

“I grew up in a Dwemer city,” you say nonchalantly.

“I didn’t realize that made you sneak thief.”

“Would you like me to relock the trunk so we can do it more honestly?” you ask facetiously.

“No, no,” he says quickly. You give him a sly smile and open the lid.

“Wow, there’s all kinds of things in here,” you remark as you pull out your clothes.

“We won’t be stealing!”

“So we’re just going to leave this for the other bandit?”

“What if someone recognizes their goods?” he asks as he hurriedly ties his britches to his waist.

“We’ve got some candles, a ball of spun flax, two tin cups, and a whole mess of buttons,” you answer, “Not exactly unique merchandise.”

“Well… okay. I’m not entirely pleased with the scenario, but I find it unlikely that we could track down the owners of such common objects, and I do not wish to leave the scoundrels with anything.”

“That’s the spirit! Oh, and there’s about eighty coins.”

“Eighty coins?!” he cries out, ready to mount a protest.

“Think of it as our dowry,” you reply.

And though stealing didn’t sit well with him, marrying you did, and he happily set the eighty-two coins aside for the day that he would be free to love you as much as he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I refuse to use the proper word of "mon pubis". It's just so.... unsexy. Mons pubis. Yick. Lips is sort of awkward but mons pubis... just no.


	24. The Last Days in the Empire

Now that the travel is moving swiftly, you’ve began longing for two days in the same place. You don’t know how many miles you’ve traveled thus far but you do know one thing: “I cannot wait to get to Chorrol.”

“I dread it,” Ondolemar replies.

“Why?”

“I’ve grown quite fond of being by your side, and I dread anything that parts us,” he confesses. “However, in truth, I am relieved we have made up some time. We are still two months behind schedule, but it would be much worse if we still had the carts.”

“We’re two months behind?!”

“I am surprised it isn’t longer,” he laughs.

“True. Is that why you are so pleased with making up time?”

“The very reason. As it stands, we will likely encounter the beginning of the rainy reason when we are crossing through Valenwood. I would like to deal with as little monsoon rain as possible.”

“How bad will it get in Valenwood?”

“I’ve never experienced it myself, and it may be nothing more than muddy roads, but I think worth our pushing on. Unfortunately, our pressed schedule has left us in want of a proper inn for the night. I think we need to consider taking in with a local; we cannot make it to Chorrol before dark.”

“I am sure there are farms beyond these trees, but all the houses are far from the road,” you remark as you try to peer between the thick forest.

Ondolemar stops his horse and you follow suit. After a few moments, he says, “This way.” leading his horse into the forest, towards the sound of children playing. Soon you’re overlooking the edge of a field of wheat, where children are picking weeds but mostly playing games.

“Excuse me,” Ondolemar says to the first child he sees.

The child had never seen someone so tall in his life, much less seated on a horse. He stares up at Ondolemar for a really long minute before another child yells, “Marc!”

Marc snaps to attention. “Yes sir?”

“Please send for your father. I wish to rent a bed if one is available to us, and lodge our horses. I can pay ten gold,” Ondolemar says, knowing that price will guarantee agreement without much fuss.

Marc runs back and blurts out the whole thing so fast that his parents only have the vaguest idea of what their six year-old is trying to say. What they do understand is that ten gold will be a nice sum for very little trouble, but no so unreasonable as to seem strange. Rather than make the child relay any more confused messages, they ask him to invite the strangers in.

They’re stunned when a _Thalmor_ strides into their kitchen, servant in tow. Ondolemar notices the wife immediately pales and glares at her with suspicion. Her body is angled strangely too, as if she would step aside and reveal something. This couple struck Ondolemar as too poor for most daedric princes to bother with, so it must be _Talos._

“Step aside,” Ondolemar says so casually, so easily, a refusal would be strange.

“Ondolemar,” you say from behind him, understanding the situation all too well. “Please.”

“All I wish is for her to step. Aside.” he replies, somewhat surprised you’re trying to protect them. In fact… He turns to you and asks, “Are you saying you have sympathies for Talos worshipers.”

“Not at all, but what does it really matter is someone worships a fake god? Are we to monitor all the local saints and spirits?”

“A human cannot be a god!” Ondolemar snaps.

“Semantics,” you protest. “Just call him a saint!”

“ _Saint Talos?!”_ he shouts in indignation. You have no reply for that attitude, but Ondolemar is not done. “I cannot believe this! I really thought you understood the _most_ important thing, at the center of my service to the Thalmor, and you- You think it’s all silliness and do understand anything at all!”

Utterly insulted, you snap back, “I understand _you?_ Why don’t you try understanding _me_ for once?” and stomp out before your voice can crack. You do not get far from the house before you collapse in the dirt, sobbing at the thought of what will become of the family left inside.

Ondolemar rubs the bridge of his nose, already understanding that as much as he desires to punish these heretics, you would never forgive him if he did. Though his feverish reverence for the Thalmor doctrine begs him to strike down these fools, the sounds of your sobs are trickling in through the open windows and are rending his heart in two. Despite ever fiber of duty compelling him to strike these heretics down, he turns on his heel and walks out to meet you in the field, crying helplessly between the rows of wheat.

“Shh…” he says, sinking to his knees to place his hands on your shoulders. “I will leave the family unmolested, I promise.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise, but please tell me…” and he pauses to make sure his voice is steady and calm. “How long have you sympathized with Talos worshipers? Has… Has everything been a lie?”

“How could you say such a thing?!” you spit back.

“I really thought you understood my soul,” he says, shaking his head as his hands slidw off your shoulders. If he could wrap his mind around it, his heart would break, and yet it holds on hope that there could be an explanation.

“And you mine,” you snap at him, if only to defend yourself from the insecurity this argument brought.

Ondolemar, desperate not to lose your amity, relents quickly, “But perhaps it is unfair to expect such things in the spring of our affections, understanding souls and such. I want to learn, but I can hold nothing but zealous anger at even the tangent of Talos.”

“I thought you planned to leave the Thalmor…”

“I joined the Thalmor on the conviction of my heart and soul, not for the notoriety or networking. Leaving them will not change my convictions.”

“If we must make war with every worshiper we meet, then we shall never stop receiving retribution,” you remark miserably.

“Do we not cast out every daedra worshiper?” Ondolemar insists, “Why should Talos be different?”

“Ondolemar, I am not a strong mage like you. If someone is angry enough, they might hurt me…”

“Oh…” he says. Although he wishes he could protect you always, that is an impractical situation, especially in the case of having just given birth… Not to say _that_ is guaranteed by this union, but Ondolemar surely would not want to endanger the possibility of a family over some dirt farmers in the backwoods of Cyrodiil.

“Ondolemar… I… I thought- I thought you spared the poor people when you could. I thought you understood how little comfort we have,” you say softly.

“My darling… my dawn, day, and moon…” he begins, but then relents to reality. “I was not so noble; simply put, I feared your disapproval, and still do. Please tell me you may grant me a chance to reexamine my thoughts. I cannot guarantee I can extinguish my burning hatred of Talos, but given time, I might learn from your loving and patient example.”

“I know how deeply you abhor Talos worshipers. I understand how heavy this must be on your soul, and I am deeply honored that you would consider such things on my behalf,” you say, then kissing him on the cheek.

He relishes the gesture, but his anxieties still begged the question, “I must ask, do you hold any love for Talos? Please be plain, for my heart could not bear another lie.”

“No, not at all,” you explain, “I think he is destruction without renewal, subjugation, pain, bitterness. Victory is admirable thing, but why should we revel in others’ misery? Is this life not hard enough? No, certainly this too is why the Keep steward put me by your side.”

“That I can accept gladly,” he replies brightly. “Come, we should get out of this dirt patch and back inside.”

Once back in the farmhouse, Ondolemar makes it abundantly clear no one should mention your passing through, and the family readily agrees. That matter being settled, he pays for the bed, and the younger children rejoice in sleeping outside in the pleasant summer air, under the stars. Being well dark, the adults sit inside drinking tea and trading gossip, while the oldest daughter combs your dress with a clothes brush. At some point, Marc offered to shine Ondolemar’s boots, but grew distracted from the task when the torchbugs began blinking. The wife shines his silver instead while her husband regales the guests with the story of a bear attack that grows wilder every time.

The couple were unaware you two planned to sleep next to one another in the same bed, and normally would have objected to an unmarried couple lying under their roof. However, the tremors from their near death experience still shook their bones, and they said nothing about it, even in the morning when they served breakfast.

Ondolemar dallies with readying the horses, finding far more enjoyment from watching you across the way, crouching with the wife at the garden bed, discussing the herbs and weeds growing there. Last night, you had made much mention of the family’s poverty, and it was apparent, in their homespun clothes, lack of shoes, and old work animals. Yet, he can see nothing but riches. An old, happy couple, a large family, chickens in the coop, and grain in the granary, all hidden in the woods so carefully that not even the tendrils of the Thalmor could touch them.

Once you leave the farm, you note your partner seems rather melancholy, but before you can find the words to ask him about it, he says, “Would you prefer a large or small family?”

“Oh, small, I would think. I wouldn’t want to give away my babies…” you say, remembering your own childhood.

“But if money was no object?”

“Well, if money and health are well, then a large family! I would even like to adopt a baby or two.”

“Or two!” he teases. “Then we shall need a large tract of land for our home.”

“You shall be doing all the plowing!” you remind him.

“Ah yes,” he answers with a sly side glance that flusters you so thoroughly you cannot speak again until after you arrive in Chorrol.

Both of you fully expected some sort of mishap to tie you up in Chorrol, but after two nights, the horses are well-rested, your saddlebags are resupplied, and you set out without the least of incident. The miles to the Valenwood border seem to melt away with ease until the last day, just five miles from the border, an enormous Oblivion rift opens, and out steps Jazan the Magnificent.

Ondolemar is irritated by the turn of events, but being nearly in sight of the Aldmeri Dominion stays his reaction.

“Let’s settle this,” Jazan says, having already summoned his daedroth guardians.

“No Thalmor agent shall create unnecessary pain or strife within the Empire,” Ondolemar says, coolly quoting the White-Gold Concordant. The horses have finally calmed, and he moves to spur his on before any more people gather to watch the debacle. He is not the only Thalmor agent here, and hardly wishes word of this nonsense feud to make it back to Alinor.

“You’re a bastard maker,” Jazan snaps, quite clearly trying to goad Ondolemar, who, for his part refuses to acknowledge what is most plainly untrue. He keeps his back as straight as a staff, and the horses respond in kind with the carefullest of walks passed the conjuror. You spare Jazan a glance, and see no malice in his eyes, only mischief, yet he adds one more insult as Ondolemar passes him. “Hedge mage.”

All of the Altmeri onlookers, drawn first by the fiery gate and now by the spat, gasp in sheer horror of the accusation. Ondolemar glances over his shoulder, a smirk on his lips. “You should not speak of yourself that way, Jazan.”

That earns a firebolt, which Ondolemar negates easily, though the goal was not to scorch him so much as spook the horse. You stretch over and grab the reigns so you can touch the horse’s head and calm its mind enough that Ondolemar can dismount safely. Once his feet are on the ground, you guide the animals to safety at the edge of the circle of curious folks.

“What will it take for us to cease this foolishness?” Ondolemar says plainly, though truthfully it doubles as a ploy to give him time to apply wards. “Shall we pass this feud to our offspring, or shall we put these things aside for a brighter future? I am willing to address whichever faults I have committed if we should lay this ugliness to rest.”

Jazan mulls it over for a few moments, Though he had no immediate plans for children, he hardly wanted to wage war on Ondolemar’s children, who would surely object to their father’s receipt of abuse. Just as his mind began to form a reply, a sudden blackness encloses his mind. If no one had relayed the following events, he would have assumed he passed out from heat or hunger, but the reality was much more critical.

“Then I shall do it myself,” Jazan said in a voice that was not his own by any means. His imps shrink from the new and sudden presence, but they are quickly consumed by the possessor and the energy redirected to Ondolemar. The very first bolt breaks through all of Ondolemar’s defenses and sends him flying more than a few meters.

This magic is different, powerful, devoid of the faults of mortality, but he still groans, “Jazan,” as he tries to get on his feet.

The figure walks to Ondolemar, tossing another bolt he manages to dodge. The second is unavoidable and would have obliterated his arm if he were a lesser mage. As it were, it is merely broken, which puts Ondolemar in a poor position to defend himself from the next blast. He manages to ward in away, but is is so powerful, he is unsure he will be able to repeat the feat.

As Jazan grows closer, Ondolemar smells a peculiar scent of burning flesh, and sees Jazan’s gloves have been completely melted from his hands and his fingertips… Ondolemar knew then that he was a man possessed, even before his saw the gaping void that has replaced Jazan’s lively eyes.

“Jazan!” Ondolemar calls out, hoping to reach the mage, surely the only one who could overpower such a powerful force.

“As fate would have it, he is not available,” the voice replies, a strangely sultry and female voice for the usually smarvy man. The statement put chills in Ondolemar’s spine: could this be Mephala Herself?

As if reading his mind, Jazan’s form suddenly changes to something both hideous and alluring, a horrid spider for his legs, and a beautiful, bare-breasted female where his torso once rose. With a twist of her hand, she pulls roots buried in the earth up to bind Ondolemar in place so he may scurry no more. Though he tried valiantly to burn all his would-be captors, soon each limb twist and crushes him into bondage.

“I know how your story ends,” she says, though Ondolemar could not possibly understand how utterly blind she is to the present. All he can do is pray, and pray, and _beg_ Auri-El to grant you the swiftness to run from this place, escape her notice. Certain he is about to die, he throws his head back and looks to the sky in supplication.

Mephala summons the last of this mortal shell’s energy to create a bolt that would cut Ondolemar in two. She takes no time to savor his writhing, and hurls it at him to seal a fate she thought she already knew.

But, just then, the necklace, once Fevkyn’s and now Ondolemar’s dearest possession, breaks in two of its own will, releasing a fragment of Shoegrath’s essence. The prince had no sooner appeared than absorbed her blow as if it were nothing more than a breeze.

“Mephala, Mephala,” Shoegrath chides, “Naughty, naughty.” and by means even the princes do not fully understand, he drags her out of the mortal and back to Oblivion, taking a small piece of her when he rejoins the biggest piece of the fractured Mad God.

Mephala’s sudden absence did not improve Ondolemar’s situation, and a few men with axes had to cut him away, having no regard for the Green Pact outside of Valenwood proper. Ondolemar collapses to the ground, and you attend to his legs first; luckily the fractures are but hairlines, and nothing you cannot heal swiftly. Though he is left sore from the bruises, two men are able to help him walk himself to a home nearby so he might rest after his bout with a prince, which all of the travelers begin gossiping about to anyone who would listen.

Jazan’s most trusted guardian is summoned by an old contract put in place should its master be dead in all but spirit. Before the angry mob could rush in on the conjuror, the demon lifts its master tenderly in its arms and spirits him away to a pocket realm suited for rest and healing. Mobs searched the woods, but the mage is nowhere to be found.

In two days, Ondolemar is well enough to ride again, though his right arm remains in a sling, and you insist on helping him on and off his horse. He is glad for the legitimate excuse to take your hand in public, though the look in his eyes would have alerted anyone to his deepest affections. He hardly cared, even though he knew that the rules inside the Dominion are different, and the consequences more immediate.

* * *

“Azura,” the realm master remarks.

“Boethiah,” the visitor replies, though no mortal could understand how exactly their thoughts crossed from one to the other.

“To what do I owe this visit?” the traitor-queen asks, “Have you prophecy for me?”

“That all depends… What do you know about these wagers Clavicus has been taking?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Can you believe 24 chapters and were are now juuuuuust entering Valenwood? I wanted this story to be slow, so I hope you're into it!


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